Keith Law's complete TALES FROM THE GREAT ROLLING DYNO

[gooned]

Wow, great adventure - more so for a 15 yo!

Looking fw to more as usual Keith, thanks for sharing!

[RONSLYCHUK]

As always a great read Keith. When does the long awaited novel come out?

[bertvorgon]

I don't think so, thanks for the support, but, very limited audience I would think. Self publishing is not cheap and my ego would hate rejection......ha, ha.

I know there are quite a few of my stories on this site but they fade away in time too.

I have slowly been putting together my binder, with everything printed off, just in case of total digital melt down, even though I have triple back up. It's 4" thick now, as my stories start back in the 70's with the car clubs and documenting the race trips and events. Lots of history for sure there, and then, there are all my work related stories, which I have written to document for my family first and foremost, while my memory is intact. The world of GOLD & SILVER had some bizarre situations over the years.

You should see the pictures of the super secret precious metals refinery in Aldergrove, B.C., that would blow you away. Long closed, it is ALL still there.

I consider myself a documentarian first I think. Same with my photo albums, I recorded what went on with film. I was never one to cover my kids birthday parties and such.What I did do was film our adventures, as I have done with the 510 Club, etc.

Thanks to those that do read my stories!

[loungin112]

Still following!

[proflex]

Great read Keith! I love riding my adventure bike through that area, on the old wagon trail. Or friends had the Meadow Springs Ranch at the end of stormy road. 87mile. They just sold this fall. We did loved staying in one of their log cabins on trips up there over the years, sad to see that go.
-And your right about the bugs, bad after the sun goes down too. lol

[bertvorgon]

As I do write about my working history in the World of Precious Metals and refining, I do come upon some interesting things.

This “shed” is linked to a fellow who passed away, in the Yukon, where an alleged theft happened, stealing his gold and silver from his estate, supposedly buried in his yard.
I won’t bore you with the details, there was a court case and in that information was this picture of one of his sheds, with the Datsun pickup truck in the back. Who knows what has happened to it but it proves the “garage” finds are still there.

It all ended up in court, the amount was in excess of 106,000.00+ CDN.

[bertvorgon]

MERRY CHRISTMAS WORLD!

I wish all, the peace and safety that we can muster, for our journey into another year.

It has been tough for a lot of people and families, what with lingering effects of this past year, Covid, flu and just plain mental health issues for those alone and family interactions.

We lost a few family members this past year, so tough when Christmas comes around. That we have gotten hit with some extreme bad weather right before, as people try to travel, is just plain tough. My van is incased in an inch of frozen rain right now, which at some point today I will try to remove, as I have to head into Vancouver tomorrow morning to pickup my sister-in-law. Hoping the predicted warming and rain does happen.

I missed driving the 510 this past summer, hoping that it will all be resolved in the New Year. At least I had a wicked blast with Jamie in his 510 against my G35 !!!!

The pictures of the icicles show the lack of insulation in my 100 year old house, the longest is about 5', reminds me of being a kid on the Prairies, not seen that here for years! We got a measured 14" of snow here at the height, took me 2 hours to dig my van out.

So, be sure you give loved ones a hug, phone a family member you have not talked to in a long time! As we have seen in this past year...life is gone in a heart beat.

Take care all, be well and safe,

Keith

[bertvorgon]

Afternoon World,

I thought I would post up this story I wrote a few years ago, the site has been pretty quite these past months, As my brother and I have been doing a LOT of reminiscing of the old days. He lost his wife last May, which has been a family tragedy and of course sparked looking back at all we did on our adventures.

This trip was just he and I, heading back through one of our favorite wilderness 4 x 4 trails, with the final destination to be where the old Pioneer/Bralorne gold mine used to be, and pan for gold in the Cadwallader Creek.

Hope you enjoy.

CAMPING WITH YUKON JACK

The twin pontoons of the Big Bar reaction ferry swung slightly upriver, beginning our slow journey across the rapidly flowing and boiling, muddy brown Fraser River, in final spring runoff.. Our adventure had begun in earnest.

Two months before, my brother Kim and I had planned this four wheel drive trip, ending with a day of gold panning on Cadwallader Creek, between the old Pioneer Gold mine and the Bralorne Gold Mine. I was fairly new in my job in the precious metals industry and had become aware of this wonderful area and its history.

Upon reaching the other side of the fast flowing Fraser, we now realized how steep the grind would be up from the dry desert of the Fraser, where it was 35C on this day, to the top of China Head Mountain, some 7,600 ft (2,122 Meters).

This was to be my brother’s first real off-road trip since getting his new Toyota Land Cruiser FJ40. He had put a small lift kit in, Armstrong
Tru-Track tires, winch, and all the equipment required for a solo overland trip.

To say it was steep is an understatement, the dry yellow earth boiling up in great clouds behind us, not ending till we headed into some tall timber and onto an old gravel/dirt fire road.

The trail leveled out for some kilometers, when, rounding a bend, the trail narrowed and headed up, becoming even steeper. Then the real climb began!

At one point we came upon a section of the bank to my right, that had covered the trail, as a small landside, the angle was crazy. We got out to check it, it was solid, so back in we got and headed slowly over it. At one point, I was not so much looking at my brother, but DOWN at him. Wow, was that scary. The Toyota never missed a beat. I told my brother that I would feel safer WALKING over the next one!

Climbing higher had us going through thinning trees, as we came closer to the sub alpine of the Camelsfoot Range. In a few places we could see through the trees to the immense expanse of the valleys and mountains on all sides of us…spectacular.

We now had been driving for three hours since the ferry crossing, the sun really starting to drop. We were close to where we thought we would camp, hoping to be there before sunset. There were some small trees down across the trail at various times. This too took time to cut and move, fortunately nothing was too big. It also pointed out that we were at least the first to travel this route, at the time having no knowledge if it was used very much. In later years we did more trips over route and discovered running into someone was a rarity.

As we popped out of the last stunted trees, just below the actual China Head peak, the vistas before us were stunning! The trail went past the peak for about 150 meters, and then an even rougher trail branched off to head back up to the actual peak. We did not want to camp up there, in case strong winds came up on the exposed peak.

We found a nice little spot behind some low shrubs. It was now time to set up a quick camp, the first thing on the agenda, the MOST important, was to open up some cold, brown wobbly-pops! After driving for nine hours some refreshment was in order.

This first nights dinner had been pre-made to keep things simple, and, we decided to just sleep under the stars with a tarp over us to mitigate the dew.

Walking up to the peak after dinner gave us the most incredible, 360 degree view of the valleys and mountains all around us. To the north we could see over a hundred miles, late snow covered the mountain peaks, turning dark red as the sun set.

As an aside to another trip, some years later, we camped at that same spot and had one of our more memorable experiences in the outdoors.

Towards dusk, we walked up to the peak and sat next to the rock cairn, 7,639 feet, when the show began. To the West a blood red sliver of light remained painted on the mountain tops, fading fast. To the north, on the horizon, was an amazing display of fluid, rippling green, the Northern lights, something not usually seen this far south. Behind us to the east, a brilliant white sliver of moon was just cracking the sky. To the south, and some 4,000 feet below us in the deep valley, was a gray snake of cloud, its electric flesh snapping blue and brilliant white flashes of lightning while it crept along with not a sound for us of its fluid flow. And above, the clarity at this elevation of the vast twinkling of stars and the solid band of the Milky Way was to say breathtaking. We sat there in awe for an hour till the chill of the high mountain air drove us back to the campfire. All the while there was no sound, not a whisper of air, true quiet, something that has been lost in the catastrophe we call a city.

My wonderful Dad used to describe these moments in time as “Ethereal”, and he was so right.

We settled into our sleeping bags; beat after the day’s journey, my brother tucking the trusty 12 Ga. Shotgun between us. We were after all, in Grizzly country.

I awoke with a start, staring at the twinkling stars, what was that….a LOUD rustling! Half a sleep I could hear something at our feet. “Whaa…what… was that?” In the next instant I could hear my brother waking with a start, something was at our feet! He started to grab the shotgun…I yelled; “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!!!” I thought he might blow our toes off.

As we waited, in the next second, for the 1,000 lb grizzly bear to rip our beer sodden flesh from our bones, this little deer mouse ran out from between us, OVER the shotgun, and off into the underbrush, offering a different narrative!

The dawn cracked early at 7,000 feet, breakfast was made and a couple of good pots of camp coffee downed.

The China Head trails winds along open ridges, with ever changing vistas. It then drops down and follows a small mountain stream, Davey Jones Creek. If ever there was a pristine, fairy land place, this was it. Spring flowers were everywhere, and the valley floor was lush and verdant.

After navigating Davey Jones creek we climbed high again, and then plunged down to cross Churn Creek, which was maybe a foot deep in the late spring runoff.

Next was the last, seemingly impossibly steep climb, where we had to straddle the wider tracks made by larger 4 x 4’s. The trail then headed past Mud Lakes, where the name fit. As we slogged through the mud, spinning and slipping, we felt reassured by the presence of our trusty winch, just in case.

Bralorne was but an hour away at this point, barring any trees down.

I had a good idea where we could camp, a kilometer or so down from the Pioneer Gold mine. The Pioneer mine at this point had been ripped apart by the Whiting Bros, who took all the dried concentrate from the pipes, tanks, and anything left from the ore processing. I ended up melting that high grade material when first at Delta Smelting & Refining. We produced, if I remember correctly, some $250-$300,000.00 dollars CDN.

After setting up camp, just before noon, in a nice sheltered glade of Poplar, Aspen and giant Cottonwoods trees, we headed down to the creek, gold pans in hand.

Now, to a point, we were rookies, armed with enthusiasm, and, my 10X power negative magnifier from my small photo lab darkroom, this will be significant later in the story!

I decided we should take turns wading out into the ice cold creek, dig paydirt out from under a few big boulders and pan that. Wow was that water cold when standing in it for 5 minute shoveling. We would fill up a pan, carry it to shore, dump it in an old washtub we found, then repeat till were too cold to do more. We did check the odd pan, examining our material…with the 10X power loupe…we saw LOTS of flakes! That got us more excited, Bonanza was around the corner.

Of course no gold panning operations should be without the odd, cold beer chilling in the river! As the day wore on, the air temperature at 4,500 feet hit well into the mid 20’s, hot sun beating down on us for the rest of the day. Maybe a few more beers were had……

Around 5-6 in the evening, we decided we had enough concentrate, having seen TONS of gold, and, we were quite chilled down. The two of us manhandled the wash tub back to camp.

A good campfire was soon roaring, preparing to get some good coals and do our steaks and a nice potato pan fry over it. This of course required that another beer or two downed to slake our thirst.

Dinner done, we cleaned things up, ready for the trip home the next day. Pulling up our lawn chairs to enjoy the evening fire, it was time for…..YUKON JACK.

A word now on YUKON JACK and you may ask….what is it?

It is a Canadian made, slightly honey flavoured liqueur, and I quote from the bottle; “The Black Sheep of Canadian Liquors, a taste born of hoary nights, when lonely men struggled to keep their fires lit and cabins warm”

My brother and I discovered this drink in the early 70’s and it has been a camping staple ever since. What also needs to be noted, as I have lived close to the U.S. Border, is that I would pop across and get the U.S. Imported bottle, 100 PROOF, 50%! The Canadian version, go figure, is 40%.

This wonderful drink, in the hands of the uninitiated,….is dangerous.

It is kind of like giving your eight year old kid a dozen blasting caps, a ball peen hammer and telling him to go play on the driveway, or, driving down the roughest logging road at 80 KmH, with a loaded 12 ga., safety off, on the floor next to you…

Warmed by food and the fire, tired, the heat of the day taking its toll, we rehashed the trip and talked about the fortune in the wash tub we had panned. At the time too, it was lost on us that we had spent the day looking at #16 mesh flakes, which through the magnifier, made them look like #4 mesh nuggets! Two finger glasses’ moved to three finger glasses! We SHOULD have known better!

At some point, again lost to us, and after the fire had burned down to a safe level, we crawled into our pup tents.

As I lay down and tried to shut my eyes, the pup tent began spinning, at a rate I could not believe; “Why was that I wondered, I did peg it down!” I clutched my sleeping bag, hoping that would stop it.

Next thing I remembered was being aware that I was cold and staring at the stars, covered in dew, maybe ten feet from the tent. In the faint starlight I could see that the outline of the Toyota was moving back and forth 40 feet at a time.

“That’s not right…..!”

I then realized that my pup tent had landed where it should be, and I crawled back into it.

I awoke to the smell of wood smoke and fresh camp coffee, the wonderful sound of a crackling fire and the perc pot puffing away its strong aroma. If I looked like my brother, we were a rough bunch.

Two pots of coffee later and much discussion about how we lost the rabbit on the YUKON JACK ( not much left ), we headed out, following Carpenter Lake back to the Terzaghi dam, then up and over Mission Mountain down to Shalalth, then along Anderson Lake, following the highline power road back to Pemberton and home. What a dusty drive that was.

My brother had to head back right away to Port McNeill, so I promised him I would get right at our tub of treasure.

The following week I rendered the concentrate down to a smeltable amount, mixing up a good black sand type flux. An hour later I poured it into our cone mold, expecting to see a good sized cone of gold. This is when my still rookie state was shattered; there was maybe a four gram prill of gold! The realization really hit when I thought about that 10X loupe that we had looked through all day.

I phoned my brother, who I think thought I burned him, “How could there NOT be gold there?” It took me awhile to explain.

We laugh now of that trip, the adventure, the beauty of the landscape, how lucky we were to be able to do that route without seeing anyone.

Kim and I had learned, on subsequent trips, to treat YUKON JACK with a great deal more respect!

Keith Law
February 13, 2021

Note:

1) I think over the years with the Toyota’s, we did maybe a dozen trips over this route. On May 18, 1980, as we were cooking breakfast at around 8:30 AM, we heard a TREMENDOUS boom, wondering what the heck that was, knowing it was way bigger and deeper sounding of any blasting with road building or logging. As it turned out we had heard Mt. St. Helens blow up, sending that shock wave bouncing along the bottom of the stratosphere all the way to China Head, at 7,000 Ft..

[RONSLYCHUK]

Thanks Keith for another great story. I guess that’s why I check the Realm everyday.

[gooned]

Yeah great story as always and the pics are gold too!

[bertvorgon]

Afternoon World!

As the site is a bit quiet these days, I have had time on my hands, especially to finish my story. Concluding how my family ended up in Telegraph Cove, and, the linkage to how I got started in the gold refining business in 1969

Faithful reader will have hopefully read the 93 Mile Ranch story, which got me thrown out of in the middle of the night, thus leading to my job in Telegraph in 1968. I then posted the FORWARD is a STORY, which sets up a lot that I did in Telegraph as a kid, 1965, 1966, & 1967. Long time readers, from my first story in this thread, will see I pulled a chunk out, of my first drive down Island in my 58' Chevy. No matter. It is LONG, maybe Spencer or Rob will ban me for using so much data space!

I hope you enjoy and still would pop my stories of work in the Precious Metals World if interested, as I now have all my writings organized.

Keith

TELEGRAPH COVE

1968

The dead man stood up, arm reaching out, a blood tinted fog surrounding him in the cold, misty November morning. That’s when the screaming started. It was not him!

It is late August, 1968, I have returned home from the 93 Mile ranch where I was unceremoniously thrown out of, in the dead of night. I had just gotten off the phone with the sawmill supervisor in Telegraph Cove, to see if there was a job available in the mill.

My timing could not have been more perfect as there was a job to “tail” the small re-saw and be a general helper, plus, as I had worked on the Gikumi tug boat, to be the deck hand, to deliver lumber and supplies into the Broughton Archipelago and beyond.

My pilgrimage to Telegraph would require a long distance drive in my 1958 Chevy Delray. It had 3 on the tree, 232 Cubic inch, straight six, 4,000 lbs of Detroit iron! This is the same car Ron Howard drove in the movie, AMERICAN GRAFFITI.

I would be travelling up on the only way there, 150 miles of logging road, gravel hell, in the early days it was called: “The Ho Chi Minh Trail”. Nanaimo to Campbell River, then over to Gold River, then up the gravel logging road starting right outside of Gold River. Before the Island highway was built, this was the only way to drive to Port Hardy from Campbell River.

There was a hitch though; you could only travel after logging hours! The road was gated at both ends, and then manned by company people, who would open the gate at 5:00 PM, or, after the last logging truck was out. This was done for every ones safety, as the trucks up there carry HUGE loads, use the entire road, and cannot stop even if they wanted to. So, other than in the height of summer, this meant you were traveling at night for the most part.

I know some of you out there know what it is like to drive on those logging roads. The pot holes, wash board, parts of B.C. that stick out of the road, are part of the equation. They beat tires and suspension to oblivion. Then, there is the dust! Great, boiling clouds of it, insidious in its tendency to get EVERYWHERE!

Driving with lights on is mandatory, and convention or un-written law had it that, you were to follow someone a good distance back. Reality dictated that you had to do this anyhow, because you could not see anything, and the dust would fill your car as much on the inside, as there was on the outside. So, here I am, an eighteen year old kid, about to experience the REALITY, of getting up island in my own car, for my first trip to Telegraph.

I spent a day both packing clothes and checking the Chevy. Tire pressures, spare, oil, water, all the stuff. I would be staying in the small room in the bunk house. No heat, one light bulb, a small window that looked out into the Cove. I had a stack of books, a small electric heater and lots of blankets. This was still the time when Telegraph had its own power plant and it was turned off at 11 PM every night. I had of course stayed here over my summers, so heat was not an issue, but was well aware of how cold it would be heading into winter.

I headed out right before the September long weekend. I was scheduled to start in the mill September 2. My plan was to get an early ferry and have a leisurely drive to Gold River, where I would then wait for the gate to open at 5 PM.

The drive to Gold River was uneventful, the winding gravel road really kept the speeds down, which suited the old Chevy just fine.

Arriving at the gate, I found a lineup of cars already there and ready to go! I realized I would be eating a lot of dust, so I just planned to hang back. This will be repeated later in the story where: I AM AT THE FRONT OF THE LINE UP!

The last logging truck rolled through at 4:45, the gate went up and away we all went, covered in a layer of dust already by the passing logging trucks coming through the gate. The pack of cars and trucks left me behind, and those behind me passed when able. The road was incredibly dry in the late August heat, and the boulders that stuck out were the size of coconuts. Already my car was getting pounded and I slowed to 20 to 30 mph, afraid of my tires blowing. My car survived the drive, and I had only stopped a few times for a leg stretch and to let some vehicles go by.

I arrived late in the evening on August 30th, 1968. It was about 9:00 PM, and the summer light was starting to fade already as it was so far north. When I reached the bunkhouse I discovered that one of the local residents had left a tin of cookies in my room! The bunkhouse had a small kitchen and two small rooms which would be occupied by me, and another worker. The front of the bunkhouse also had a very small, self contained suite which was also occupied this year by
a young couple, who would come to my aid later in the story.

The history of Telegraph is long, but, the short story is that the sawmill had its humble beginnings in the 1920’s, and over the decades, very much stayed like it was in the beginning, only diesel replacing the steam engine driving the mill. It derived its name from the telegraph line that was installed along the coast in 1912, with “Telegraph Cove”, as it was named, being a linesman’s station. Only one person lived there in 1912, the linesman.

Even in the 70’s, when going down the coast, along Johnston Strait, to fish or hunt, you could on occasion see one of the old poles or cross bars bolted to a tree.

My job in the mill was to help with the lumber coming out of the re-saw, help move some of the massive cants as they came off the head rig and generally clean up saw dust and wood bits.
The mill was still driven by fast moving canvas belts and huge, large link chains, dragging the debris out from under the mill to pile in one spot, to be then taken to the bee hive burner.


In all it did not take me long to realize how dangerous this place was. To stand across from the moving carriage and the sawyer, two feet from the head rig, screaming in your ear, was quite the experience. Those two saw blades, each, were 4 feet in diameter, hissing when no load was on them, screaming as they cut the logs to dimensional sizes. Telegraph was well known at the time for cutting beautiful lumber with a straight grain and no knots, for the boat builders. While I was there too, we cut the railway ties for the CANFOR/ENGELWOOD/Beaver Cove railway. Also, Telegraph supplied lumber to the North end of the Island and all the floating logging camps and First Nations villages scattered about the Islands.

I had my close call when I was working under the mill, cleaning the large chain pulley at the end of the scrapper line. Large bits of end trimmings would build up, so they needed to be removed to keep the chain/pulley from jamming. I wore large, lined rubber gloves, both for warmth and grip on wood that always seemed wet. As I have small hands, the fingertips were a bit too long, so I did NOT have full dexterity. Nor did I have a sense of where the fingertips were.

In a fraction of a second, the chain pinched my finger tip as it went round the pulley, jerking me towards the moving assembly, almost pulling my whole hand into the pulley. I reacted, lurching backwards; thankfully, the glove was loose enough that it got pulled right off my hand, saving my fingers and maybe my whole arm. That lesson was burned into my brain for the rest of my life when it came to anything moving like that!

As the bunkhouse had no heat, it also had NO HOT WATER. We would boil water on the propane stove to get wash water and do dishes. The basement had a sawdust burning stove, a huge hopper was on the side of what looked like a conventional wood stove. That had some water coils in the fire box, to heat water for the steel shower enclosure, in the basement. A small galvanized, un-insulated water tank was there.

Ken, the fellow in the other bunk house room, would take turns with me every second day, to get the stove going in the morning; feed it sawdust at morning coffee, lunch, and afternoon coffee. Whoever started it would get the first kick at the hot water, hopefully leaving enough for the second person. Invariably, the second person was lucky to have lukewarm water. As the weather got colder into November, this became even more of a challenge; the basement of the bunk house was the same as the outside temperature. It became a case of… wash as fast as you could soap up and wash off, while your feet froze on the steel shower base and the air temp was 39F. It was also a challenge that the sawdust was dry enough to keep going. Depending on what type of wood was being cut, that determined how good the sawdust might be. Hemlock was the worst and it stunk! As it turned out, the winter of 1968 was one of the coldest on the coast.

Over the first month, it was the daily grind, up at 6:30, make hot chocolate and some breakfast, wait for the mill whistle to sound 10 minutes before the start of the day. I would hear the diesels fire up to warm and on my walk to the mill; I would hear the saws spin up to speed. As I was employed by Telegraph Cove Mills, when I worked in the mill, once I was actually dealing with the cut lumber to be shipped on the Gukimi, I was technically employed by the Broughton Lumber & Trading Co. I don’t know how they kept track of my pay schedule but it all worked out.

I have now worked for a month and a bit at Telegraph Cove, the Chevy not giving me too much grief. A couple of broken head lights, and a flat tire were all I could complain about. The nearest town was twelve miles away, on gravel of course, so I really did not use the car that much. The brakes were giving me a bit of a problem as they did not want to stop straight, but, when you have drums all round, that seemed the norm. I had use of a small, covered garage there, the back of it filled with old engine blocks, heads, and other mechanical junk. This kept the car dry for the most part, as it leaked in a few places.

I now thought it would be a good time to head back to Fort Langley to see Mom and Dad, and, get my brakes looked at. I knew the regulars that traveled down on the weekends, always talked about getting to the “gate” first, like that was a big deal. I had, up until this time, not thought much about it. Glen, the mill’s sawyer, asked me on the Thursday, “Can you drive fast?” “SURE!”, I said, filled with eighteen year old bravado, plus, I had done all that driving to and from the Caribou, and, of course, cruised the A & W, Dog- N’-Suds route. I was really excited about heading out, getting a bit of cabin fever up there, and, it was a road trip after all. Now, I knew we would be back early from a trip on the tug, to deliver freight to a floating logging camp, not all that far from Telegraph. I asked the owner if I could get off early so as to be first to go when the gate opened. “No problem.” He said, “JUST BE CAREFUL!” I knew I could be at the gate by 4:30, thus beating all the mill guys that got off work at 4:30. I gassed the Chevy up, we had our own fuel depot at the Cove, and I was ready to go.

Now, let’s step back a moment in time here, while I tell you what I was facing. On the drive up in August, I came up on a Friday, so the road just opened. I was not in a rush, so, I really paid no attention to how long it took. I just marveled at the beauty of the forest, the lakes and rivers, scattered all through the middle of the Island. I went relatively slow, not beating the Chevy up too badly.

I am now sitting at the GATE, facing an all night drive to Nanaimo, to catch the 5:00 AM ferry. But, more importantly, it is what’s BEHIND me!

Remember, this is 1968, a different time, a different place. What I did not know, or, think of, was that the locals all have beater trucks, cars, and love their BEER. It was common practice to grab a beer(s) after work, and, pretty much finish a six pack on the gravel section of the road, 150 miles of gravel! By the time most of them got to the gate, they were well into their second beer. As I was soon to find out, this introduced a whole new set of rules (and downside for some of them) called…SURVIVAL!

So, here I am, at the GATE, first in line. Clean clothes on, showered, I even washed the Chevy. Dumb! Behind me, I can count at least 20 vehicles, people standing around talking, and, DRINKING BEER. At five minutes to five, the gatekeeper would announce to the gathered crowd whether the last truck was on time or not. As soon as he cleared Mile 1 marker, and dropped onto the lower road to the log dump, the gate would open. For my first trip out, the truck was on time….and the gate went up. I sensed that this was more than just the start of a trip; I could see Glen grinning in my mirror. A fleeting thought went through my brain…”He is going to try to pass me!”

Let’s step back for a moment here again. What I also did not know was that Glen the sawyer, who was directly behind me, in his Dodge Power Wagon 4X4, had driven stock cars…on dirt. He was truly a “Good Ole’ Boy!” I only found this out years later, when I took my 1972 Datsun 510 turbo wagon up there. He had just bought a Toyota Celica. We had a great discussion on the merits of bottom end torque. We had a great race one day, when the local road was paved years later. He was all over me in the corners, but, I could pull him on the straights with the turbo.

The Gate rose up, and off we went, just like a Le Mans start! The Chevy had “three on the tree”, and, I had perfected my fast shifting. I was well into second gear, ready to just cruise along at maybe 35 MPH. There was a three mile hill, relatively straight to the top, then a long five mile straight stretch, before it got into the twisty back road. Why I thought everyone would stay in line, and behind me, is a mystery to me, even to this day! What in idiot. As I hit what I thought would be a comfortable cruising speed, dust billowing behind me, I could see Glen coming…and coming FAST! You know how you feel when somebody is really close to you, that subtle pressure to go a bit faster kicks in. Well, this was more than subtle, so, I STEPPED on it. My heart was racing; I think I knew that this WAS a race of some sort. No way was I going to let Glen pass me. I was now about to exceeded the performance envelope of the Chevy. I shifted into third and was likely going a blistering 45 MPH.

This may not sound fast, but, on that loose, wash board gravel, and floppy suspension I was at my max. . I remember to this day, thinking, “If I can hold him off to the windy bits, he can’t pass me!” Ha, as we got to the top of the hill, just onto the long stretch, which was quite smooth, all I have are headlights in my mirror. I then remembered……”Can you drive FAST…..?” I moved over as far as I dare, ever fearful of catching the soft edge of the road. Glen was by me in a blink, SIDEWAYS, great clouds of dust and rocks peppering the car. No broken windshield, thank God. I had likely slowed back to my comfort zone of 35 MPH, when, I hear a horn…ARG! It’s the next truck, swerving back and forth to see through the dust. He passes, I am now in a fog of dust, I slow more, and more vehicles pass me. I’m blind now! “Holy Mother of God, you F*&%#@ Dull Crud Muckers &%*#@ ARRGGG!” By now, at least a dozen vehicles have passed me. I am now at the start of the winding road, and the real rough stuff. The best speed I can do is about 20 MPH, otherwise the car feels like it is going to oversteer right off the road, or, it is going to shake to a million pieces. The car is full of dust, I can taste it. I just had my doors blown off……even got passed by Linda, the camp cook from the nearby logging camp…waving and smiling as she blew by…like she was on a Sunday drive…CRUD!

Settling down, I realize that at this speed, it will take me the better part of 8 hours to get to Campbell River. Holy Cow! That makes it about 1:00 AM, then, that only gives me four hours to get to Nanaimo, just in time to catch that 5:00 AM ferry. Holy Cow! No wonder they were all giving it bullets. At least no one else has passed me at this point. It’s dark now, four hours into the drive, when…blam…flat tire. Flat tires would haunt me for years, as I traveled up and down that back road. You see, in 1971, my Mom and Dad MOVED to the North end of the Island to work in that very sawmill. So, it’s about 9:00 PM, and I have to change a tire. No problem. I get out and survey the situation. I get all the stuff out, and, the next car that was just cruising behind me passes, slowing enough to ask if I was ok, but, still leaving me in a cloud of boiling dust. It was another unwritten rule of the road that you ALWAYS stopped to see if that person needed help. It could be you next time. The bad thing was that it just kept the dust clouds coming, I could not breathe. I popped the hubcap off, and it was filled with dust the consistency of flour. It took me 20 minutes to change that tire. I drove even slower now, knowing that I had no spare.

I ended up missing the 5:00 AM ferry, caught the 7:00. By the time I got to Fort Langley and home, it was 11:00 AM. I had been traveling for 14 hours. I realized I would have to allow for that for the trip back, so, it only gave me Saturday to get everything done. Tire fixed, brakes checked; visit…therefore…no sleep. This trip remained like that for the North Island people until the highway was finally paved all the way through in 1978. The Chevy required a full brake job, so, my transportation was gone for Saturday. That was ok, it let me just rest and visit the folks.

The trip back was at least uneventful, but long. Over the years, the pattern of drinking and driving caught up with a few of the folk. Killing some and maiming others. On numerous trips, someone would pass me, hell bent, then, miles down the road; we would see the long skid marks as they exited the road. I learned to watch my mirror very carefully, so as to not get run off the road, and, I learned to watch for the telltale signs of a big slide. We would always stop to check, and sure as hell, there would be the wreck down below the road. Why it always seemed to happen with a huge drop I’ll never know. I have dragged more broken bodies out of car crashes in those years, than I care to remember. We had to wait, with some injured people who were trapped in their wreck, with broken bones, and in excruciating pain, for help to arrive. The really scary part was that there was no help! We usually had to wait till someone in a company truck would come along, with a radio, to call for some kind of medical support. The call would go to the closest logging camp, where they would have to rouse the first aid person, and he would have to get the aid truck, and then drive to the crash site. 911 was not an option then!

Drinking and driving…NOT GOOD!

October had the temperatures really starting to drop, everything you touched was cold. Life in the bunkhouse was getting colder too. Once the power went off, the room would cool down overnight. The generator would come back on early in the morning but my little electric heater had a hard time warming the room. Ken and I would bail into the small kitchen and light the propane stove to warm us up. The coastal rains got hard too; I felt I was damp and cold most of the time.

I had done about 8 trips on the tug boat, the Gikumi, delivering freight and lumber to all sorts of remote logging camps and First Nations Villages Through September we would see an unending flow of Killer whales, as they started their migration south.

Early November had Jimmy, (the captain of the ship if you will) and I, heading out for a LONG day trip back to one of the furthest points we would go, Simoon Sound/Echo Bay. This was some 60 Km away with lots of twist and turns through the islands. It was a cold, misty day when we left, and, a possible storm was coming in according to the short wave radio.

As much as Echo Bay is sheltered, there was some wave surge coming in, that we had to be careful about, when slinging the loads to the dock. This did take some time, more time than we would have liked. It was very late in the afternoon when we left; the wind was up, with heavy rain, the seas were choppy.

The light seemed to fail very fast about half way back, with a heavy, heavy fog settling in, causing us to slow to a dead crawl.
Jimmy was concerned he could not see, asking me to get out right to the bow of the boat, with the search light blasting behind me and down right at the front. I was to be the “eyes” to watch for some reefs, Jimmy having decided we must be close to the Village of Mimkwamlis, on Village Island. We were now traveling at an idle so slowly, that I was getting colder and colder out front in the fog and misty rain.

In a blink I saw a glint just under water, a reef! Jimmy hit reverse. As he knew the waters so well, he just skirted the reef, knowing he was now heading into where the dock should be at the village. I was chilled to the bone, likely having been out front for at least half an hour. We gently bumped into the dock, coming to a stop, Jimmy and I jumped off and tied the Gikumi up for the night. He radioed Fred Wastell that we would not be back that night.

Making a pot of soup and some warm milk had us hitting the bunks to both warm up and sleep.

We both woke up to a sunny day and the sound of feet scrambling around the deck. The local kids had come on board and were maybe trying to liberate some rope and the fire axes.
A quick shout from Jimmy had them gone as we surfaced onto deck. Two hours later we were back in Telegraph.

A week later, after maybe burning the candle at both ends, as I was driving into Port McNeil after work a lot, I came down with a burning fever of 104 -105F. I was SICK!

I was so ill that I could not look after myself. The young couple living in the front of the bunk house took me in, putting up a small cot for me. I was soaking the bed cloths and sheets every few hours. I could not eat anything but small sips of soup. Telegraph was still very remote then, so a radio call was put into the Alert Bay hospital for the local doctor to come via water taxi.

Dr. Pickup arrived the next day, black bag in hand. He diagnosed me with having a very bad case of mononucleosis; I’m not sure about that now, but he gave me some medicine to take for the next few weeks. The fever broke after 5 days and I finally felt like eating. I can only thank John & Lorraine Hill for looking after me. I also learned how to make a rice dish with fried onions, garlic, diced carrots and deer meat. To this day I make that dish, deer meat replaced with beef or chicken.
The mill manager put me on light duty for a week after going back to work. I also worked more for the lumber end of things, pulling orders from the wood shed, to be shipped locally to the lumber camps, Port McNeill, Port Hardy and others.

I did manage, after my energy had come back, to go with three of the fellows from Telegraph, to take a small boat down the coast to deer hunt. We hiked way up a new logging slash, just finished by one of the small, independent loggers. We split up after hiking to about 800 feet, to work back down to the boat. Walking quietly I spotted a nice buck standing at the edge
of a landing. I had with me my very trusty, light and tough, British Lee Enfield .303 calibre Jungle Carbine, Army surplus from Army & Navy store. It was deadly accurate to 250 yards. I dropped that buck right where he stood.

In getting back to Telegraph Cove, one of the locals, Eddie Farrant, had offered to show and help me to dress the deer down. He was the boom and slip man for the mill. As it was now cold enough, we let it hang for a few days before rendering it into nice cuts of meat, to be stored in Eddie’s freezer.

A week later, at the end of November, Eddie had a terrible, life altering accident, which is still burned into my brain to this day.

The day stared cold and misty, a low fog hanging over the logs in the Cove. We were to saw red cedar today, some old growth logs that were very large. I did not mind cutting the cedar, even if it was dustier. It smelled so nice, as did the yellow cedar, I loved that.

I arrived in the mill just as the head rig spun up to speed; Glen, the sawyer, was already on the carriage, ready to go. I was to help Norman tail the head rig. The first large cedar came, rolled onto the carriage by Eddie, Glen bumped it into place and locked it down on the carriage. The first cant lay down on the rollers and I moved it down for the large cross cut saw to cut it to length. Glen moved the carriage back to take another long cut.

Meanwhile, on the slip, Eddie had pulled the next BIG cedar up, almost to the point of being able to roll it on to the carriage.
Somehow, when this log was purchased, it was in fact too large in diameter. Glen thought he had noticed that Eddie had gotten up onto the log, and was trying to split it by hand. The log already had a failure line in it, having started to split when it hit the ground during the logging. We were three quarters of the way cutting though the log on the carriage when all hell broke loose!

Bear with me as I try to describe the event.

As Glen went back on the carriage, he looked over to where Eddie should have been…and did not see him. In the next second….he saw that the log had split in two, laying like an open hot dog bun.….and the choker cable had relaxed…..where was Eddie???? In the next second Glen saw Eddie under the log, crushed between it and the steel rail on the slip. Glen hit the stop for the engines and hit the emergency whistle, which now was blowing steadily. I saw Glen move and I jumped over the rollers to get out to the slip, as did some of the crew behind me. Glen yelled to tighten up the choker cable again, which took a minute to bring the engine up to speed for the winch. Eddie was not moving, he was completely soaked in blood, and I mean completely! I could not believe what I was seeing.

As the choker cable closed around the log, taking it off Eddie, we all stood there in shock…..EDDIE STOOD UP SUDDENLY….reaching his arm out as though for help…..his whole body and head distorted, warm blood steaming in the cool air, one eye almost hanging out and all of him covered in more blood than you can imagine.

That is when the screaming started and it was not Eddie.

Glen screamed at me to go and get Jimmy and get the tug fired up and get to the fuel dock, at the same time Norman and John were to grab the stretcher and a cart. As I started running to get Jimmy, people were running towards the mill, knowing the steady whistle meant something of an emergency had happened. I almost collided with Jimmy as I left the mill and hurtled onto the boardwalk.

Two minutes later I was untying the Gikumi and Jimmy was starting the old Atlas Gardner diesel.

We had no sooner swung around to the fuel dock when Glen and others arrived with Eddie on a stretcher, on one of the wood carts. He was still breathing with a gurgling sound. I wondered how a human being could survive this, he was so broken, I almost cried in my shock. Fred Wastell had already radioed the hospital in Alert Bay. Glen and Norman got him into the galley somehow. I got a ton of blankets from the forward bunk to get him warm, it was such a cold day. I can still remember and smell the blood, so much.

Jimmy had the old diesel engine pinned to redline, something I had never seen him do. Thankfully the seas were quite calm, so we did not get pounded heading across Johnston Straight.
The small “ambulance” was waiting at the dock, with all of us climbing the steep ramp with the stretcher. In a blink they were off to the hospital but a minute away in Alert Bay.

They were able to stabilize Eddie for the night and had a Beaver seaplane there the next morning to take him to Vancouver General. This was long before there was Air Ambulance Service. It was so lucky that the weather co-operated.

The mill did not run the next day! We heard that Eddie would be going through multiple surgeries and facial reconstruction, but would survive! The only thing that really saved him was the fact that he was not completely crushed by the log that pinned him. The steel rail supporting the log was quite high; therefore the radius of the log did not fully hit the ramp. Despite this, his head and face were fractured, many other bones were broken, and many other parts of his body were traumatized. His aluminum hardhat was bent to the shape of the rail.

In the forensic accounting of what had happened, some of which Eddie could supply from what he remembered, it was stated that the accident was caused by a series of mistakes.

Eddie thought the log had split, but one side of the choker cable was really pinched between the log and steel rail. He went underneath to try and free it with a peavey pole, just to lever it a bit. What he had forgotten, or not paid attention to, was the fact that the whole cable itself had slack from the winch. So, when he gave it a pry, the stuck cable then let go and Eddie could not move fast enough as the cedar log came apart, crushing him. As far as I can remember, Eddie did not return to Telegraph Cove for 8 – 10 months.

December was COLD, everyday a challenge. I had to put a 100 watt light bulb into the engine bay in the Chevy, just so it would start with no problem. Temperatures were around freezing every day, and the nights were even colder.

Ken and I made the weekends the time to really fire the sawdust stove downstairs, both so that we each could have a really HOT shower for a change, and, it actually helped get some heat up the stairs to our rooms. I made sure to have a really good meal Sunday to have some good energy for work.

I was truly tired after being sick, and, as the month headed towards Christmas, I decided that I would not be coming back after the holiday. I let the owner know, and a week before the mill shut for Christmas, the Cove gave me a wonderful send off party. As Christmas was on a Wednesday in 1968, the mill shut down on the Tuesday. I did not want to risk driving the back road out, with NO snow tires, as it had snowed heavily for the last two days.

I had made enough money to afford taking the Beaver Cove to Kelsey Bay ferry. This ferry only had to go 40 miles down Johnston Straight, but, as it was powered by a dozen, 70 year old hamsters in a squirrel cage, fighting winds and seas, it had at times taken 12 HOURS!!! I kid you not. The longest trip I did once took a full eight hours!

It snowed the whole way down the Strait, the ferry taking about 6 hours to get to Kelsey Bay. As I rolled off, I was dying a thousand deaths, as the snow was a foot deep; the highway just tracked out, but was not plowed. I pulled over to let the few cars that were on the ferry go by, and then just took my time to get to Campbell River, fishtailing half the time.

Thankfully, just past Campbell River, the snow slowed and the highway cleared.

I arrived home at 8:30 that night, glad to be done with travelling and glad to see my parents and siblings. The old Chevy got me home, but was soon to die when the cold weather over Christmas cracked the block; seems my anti- freeze had gotten too diluted.

By this time, I desperately needed a job, and after recuperating with rest until mid January, I then got a job building fiberglass boats. I did that for about 3 months and then developed such an allergic reaction to the catalyst, I had to quit. I then landed a new job which of all places, was at another sawmill Delta Cedar Products on the Fraser River. That did not last long, I was laid off, and, at the same time….the “new old” engine block that had been put in to replace the cracked one…FAILED. The Chevy was DONE; I was not going to put any more money into that car.

In a final and wonderful twist of fate, I got a call from Dave Seed, who had started the precious metals refining company, DELTA SMELTING & REFINING and needed a trustworthy person! Dave was a family friend and hunting partner, going back to 1964. I did not have to think twice about that and as it turned out, I would have a 49 year career in the precious metals business, of which I have written about.

With a seemingly secure job, I walked into the new DATSUN dealership in Langley, Valley Datsun, and purchased my 1969 510 wagon, so I could commute from Fort Langley to Richmond.
The purchase of that 510 ultimately led to a life time of racing Datsun’s. I still have one of my 510’s to this day. It turned 50 this year!

Although I had returned to the lower mainland, my association with Telegraph Cove would continue for many years. It became a place of solace, support, and refuge for other members of my family when they encountered circumstances that required them to risk change in order to thrive.

In 1971, my Dad lost his job due to an unscrupulous partner he had joined with, in an Insurance business in Langley. My Dad was only 46 at the time, yet no insurance company would take him on, they wanted younger people. Desperate for a job, with 2 children still at home, and a mortgage, he called the mill manager at Telegraph Cove to see if they would hire him! They did; they knew him to be a very good person, who had once helped the owners to acquire Insurance for the mill and the Cove.

In June of 1971 my family, made a life altering and tough decision. They pulled up roots, and moved to Telegraph Cove, where my Dad, going from a desk job, became the head rig tailer in the mill! My dad worked there till the mill shut down in 1980. It could not compete when the Island highway was finished and lumber could be shipped via that highway from down south, cheaper.

I stayed in Vancouver, with my job at Delta Smelting moving at a fast pace, as we grew. I did beat up two Datsun 510 wagon’s over the 10 years they were in Telegraph, traveling that back road. Then, Mom & Dad moved to Port McNeill in 1981, and they retired there.

In what added up to working in Telegraph Cove, a combined total of 10 months, I spent many a trip with the Owner of Telegraph Cove, Fred Wastell. He constantly talked about how he wanted the Cove, upon his passing, to stay in the family, and the beauty of it not to be touched. The Cove was surrounded by trees, and when the mill was quiet, it was just a treasure on the coast.

From the time my family left, I have only been back a handful of times. Fred’s wish could not have been further from the truth than to what has happened to it. The Gikumi was sold to a local fellow to become the first commercial killer whale watching operation on the coast. The mill was demolished and that side of the Cove was sold to American interests. They logged all the trees off, stripped the land, and built a type of resort and some expensive houses. The Cove itself became a commercial destination place for kayakers to head out into the Broughton Archipelago. A campsite was built over in a small bay next to Telegraph. A Whale Interpretive Centre was established in the old lumber warehouse.

While the ambience has been retained to some extent on the “Canadian” side, as it is referred to, the “American” side looks like any other tourist destination, log it and pave it!
The World had arrived!

I’m so glad I got to be there while it was like it was in 1930, and I still have my fondest memory…….

One day in 1967, Fred’s wife, Emma, had me doing some gardening, trimming the shrubs and weeding in her rockery. Fred came along, seeing my heart was not really into it, and in his gruff boss voice said; “Not got much done, eh!” Then, he looked at his watch and said; “Its 11 o’clock, come on, let’s go to Alert Bay for lunch!” We took the long route, seeing killer whales, porpoises and seals on the way. We had a no rush lunch and in getting back to the dock, I bought a beautiful First Nations mask from a gentleman carving there. We arrived back in Telegraph at the end of the day.

Another wonderful adventure ……THANKS FRED…for ALL the advenures!

Keith Law April 15, 2023.

[bertvorgon]

A few more from the time.

Thanks for reading.

[gooned]

Having heard some of this personally from you over the years it was great to read it Keith, thanks for posting up.

All the old pictures are just amazing…we sure can’t leave well enough alone it seems in the name of progress.

[iceman510]

And even the Delray had 510 plates on it.

[bertvorgon]

Yup and prophetic, 9 months later I buy my 510 wagon