Working in the Chilcotin during the summer was one of the finest experiences of my thirty years at the Pacific Forestry Centre. What made it even more interesting and enjoyable was our summer help.
This particular summer Sue, Paul and I had started doing surveys of the lodge pole pine forests in BC, beginning in the Chilcotin. Most of the Chilcotin is relatively free from mosquitoes but if there was water anywhere near by, cover your head and start swatting.
One of our trips out found us in the pine forests between Nimpo and Anahim Lake, which as it turned out, at least from my perspective was one of the swampiest areas that I have ever worked in. It seems that everywhere you looked there was a swamp infested with those little beasts known as mosquitoes.
Not only were there mosquitoes in abundance there were gazillions of their little cousins the guys with the little white boots known as black flies. Get bitten by one of those little monsters and the blood would really flow. Make sure that your trouser cuffs were wrapped tightly around your ankles and your shirt sleeves were tied tightly around your wrists, because even then you would have rows of purple welts and blood running down your legs from around the top of your socks and the cuffs of your shirt sleeves.
It was the mosquitoes however that drove us crazy, these little beasts would hover overhead in huge clouds until their hum would send us into a state of hysteria or at least drive us to spray on gallons of the hikers best friend known as deet. The hysteria brought on by the mosquito was far stronger then what deet might in fact do to the desperate hiker. As with all chemicals the expediency of the moment often overrode the potential danger.
I did learn one thing however, deet is a good solvent for most things plastic or at least it’s chemical carrier is, as the handle of the increment borer would to turn into a sticky mess every time I applied deet to my exposed body parts, and this was at least three to four times each day when in mosquito country.
I can still hear the hum of the mosquitoes overhead and remember quite vividly the time that Sue Poppel freaked out and I thought for sure had gone completely bonkers when she went into a hysterical fit when they had gotten in behind her glasses and were pinging off her eyeballs.
I can’t say as I felt as sorry for her as I should have, as she used to completely get on my nerves and I sometimes got a sense of perverse satisfaction for her distress. This of course went against my upbringing and moral decency and I had to pay for it with a guilty conscience, well maybe just a little bit.
Well, gone are the days when my jeans were black from mosquitoes trying to suck my blood. Even though the mosquitoes never made me itch or swell up, I still hated them anyway.
Bird Cove Looking into Bay
Looking West into the Bay
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
103 Stuck in the Mud with Doug
One of my good friends over the years at the Pacific Forestry Service was Doug Linton a very colorful character who spent most of the eighties roaming the Chilcotin with me. It was early May and we were out again cruising the Chilcotin for possible Mountain Pine Beetle sites. This was our first scouting trip of the season and the roads in many places were still quite muddy and soft because of the melting snows.
I enjoyed working with Doug even though he came from a completely different background then me but I appreciated his perspective on life. He had quite a different outlook and was far from spiritual in the traditional sense but was very respectful of my beliefs even though he couldn’t fathom why anyone would go to church.
This particular day we were cruising through the pine forests on what might be called a road, at least it had been used that winter as a means of hauling pine from a large landing to a sawmill in Williams Lake.
Doug was behind the wheel and came flying down the road and out into the landing where we slid to a stop, all four wheels up to their axels in the deep gumbo. We were stuck and I mean stuck, what had looked like a nicely graded clearing turned out to be a patch of bottomless gumbo.
If I remember correctly the air turned blue as Doug described the situation as best he could. And even though I did not say anything I would have to admit that Doug’s description of our predicament was fairly accurate.
The only thing to do now was to get the jack-all out and go to work.
I enjoyed working with Doug even though he came from a completely different background then me but I appreciated his perspective on life. He had quite a different outlook and was far from spiritual in the traditional sense but was very respectful of my beliefs even though he couldn’t fathom why anyone would go to church.
This particular day we were cruising through the pine forests on what might be called a road, at least it had been used that winter as a means of hauling pine from a large landing to a sawmill in Williams Lake.
Doug was behind the wheel and came flying down the road and out into the landing where we slid to a stop, all four wheels up to their axels in the deep gumbo. We were stuck and I mean stuck, what had looked like a nicely graded clearing turned out to be a patch of bottomless gumbo.
If I remember correctly the air turned blue as Doug described the situation as best he could. And even though I did not say anything I would have to admit that Doug’s description of our predicament was fairly accurate.
The only thing to do now was to get the jack-all out and go to work.
In minutes out boots were the size of water buckets with the gumbo clinging to them like snot to a kids face. We could hardly lift out feet they were so heavy.
We began by jacking and or digging each wheel up and out of the mud to make room for whatever we could find in the nearby woods to place under it for traction. The truck was at least the length of itself out in the soft gumbo and it would take us well over two hours to free it from the mud.
Before we freed it from the gumbo we had to jacked each wheel up at least four or five times, as the truck would only move about three feet before the wheels would slide off the chunks of support wood and the truck would again be bellied out in the gumbo.
We began by jacking and or digging each wheel up and out of the mud to make room for whatever we could find in the nearby woods to place under it for traction. The truck was at least the length of itself out in the soft gumbo and it would take us well over two hours to free it from the mud.
Before we freed it from the gumbo we had to jacked each wheel up at least four or five times, as the truck would only move about three feet before the wheels would slide off the chunks of support wood and the truck would again be bellied out in the gumbo.
Shovelling the mud was also a real challenge as the gumbo refused to leave the shovel and if you weren’t careful the shovel would take off with the gumbo.
In the meantime Doug and I were getting more frustrated as the operation continued, Doug however cracked first about halfway through the scenario and looking at me says with the most disgusted look on his face he said, “I don’t know how you can stand there and be so stoic.” All I could say was, “You’re swearing enough for both of us.”
That was the last of the talk but boy were we sure relieved when the old Dodge crew cab again found solid ground.
It seems that anytime work is done on a road in the winter it leaves the ground really soft. A few years later this sort of thing happened again, but only this time I was driving on an otherwise good road when suddenly the truck hit a stretch of winter road repair, and again bellied out in the gumbo. Malcolm Shrimpton and Sue Poppel took off and left Paul Bodwyn and myself to dig us out. Only this time we used some old boards we had found from a dilapidated shack that happened to be near by. At least we had something to put under the wheels to make it a might easier, but it still took the proverbial two hours to get the truck back on solid ground.
In the meantime Doug and I were getting more frustrated as the operation continued, Doug however cracked first about halfway through the scenario and looking at me says with the most disgusted look on his face he said, “I don’t know how you can stand there and be so stoic.” All I could say was, “You’re swearing enough for both of us.”
That was the last of the talk but boy were we sure relieved when the old Dodge crew cab again found solid ground.
It seems that anytime work is done on a road in the winter it leaves the ground really soft. A few years later this sort of thing happened again, but only this time I was driving on an otherwise good road when suddenly the truck hit a stretch of winter road repair, and again bellied out in the gumbo. Malcolm Shrimpton and Sue Poppel took off and left Paul Bodwyn and myself to dig us out. Only this time we used some old boards we had found from a dilapidated shack that happened to be near by. At least we had something to put under the wheels to make it a might easier, but it still took the proverbial two hours to get the truck back on solid ground.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
102 Sarah Lee Cherry Pie, Anyone?
Some of the best experiences I had working for the Pacific Forestry Centre as a technician were the days I spent in the Chilcotin country roaming the Fraser Plateau in a Suburban four by four. Our base of operations was out of Riske Creek where we had a number of trailers behind the Chilcotin Inn.
One of the studies that we conducted during those years was to learn more about the dispersal of the mountain pine beetle. This required flying balloons filled with helium from which we hung traps to hopefully catch the beetles and learn more of how they traveled from place to place and at what height.
I will never forget the time in which one of our balloons got caught in a sixty foot spruce tree and I had to climb to it’s very top and free the balloon. I don’t mind saying I was extremely nervous as I slowly climbed the tree inch by inch through its mass of prickly branches covered with pitch. If you have ever touched a spruce you will know what I am talking about when I say prickly branches, as nothing is pricklier then a spruce. And yes, don’t forget the pitch, I came down covered with pitch, but I rescued a $700 balloon. I felt good about it, not so much that I had rescued a $700 balloon, but because I made it down alive.
Much of our experiments were on or near the property where the Canadian Military Engineers bivouacked several times a year and we got to see them practice their war games as we drove to our study area. I was always curious as to what they were doing as they ran around blowing things up and whatever else they did to sharpen their skills.
On the way to our study area and the military reserve was the local dump, which had the most amazing stuff, mostly because of the military’s presence. We found ourselves checking the dump every day after work to see what new items had shown up at our “tasty pantry”. Unused rations appeared every day, but the best time to visit the dump was the military’s last day out, just after they broke camp to return to their base at Chilliwack. The haul that day would be better then average as any opened cases would be tossed out with whatever was still in them.
The choicest haul ever from the dump was the time Doug rescued a case and a half of Sara Lee cherry pies. I still remember the night we ate hot cherry pie with vanilla ice cream thanks to the Canadian Military Engineers, and Carol, one of the crew said, “No way am I going to eat anything from the dump.” But when she saw us smacking our lips for more, she soon got over being squeamish, and got in on the feed.
So the question still remains, does Canada really need a military or should we rely on the US to protect our borders? You have my vote, just as long as the pie keeps coming, “Go Engineers, Go!”
One of the studies that we conducted during those years was to learn more about the dispersal of the mountain pine beetle. This required flying balloons filled with helium from which we hung traps to hopefully catch the beetles and learn more of how they traveled from place to place and at what height.
I will never forget the time in which one of our balloons got caught in a sixty foot spruce tree and I had to climb to it’s very top and free the balloon. I don’t mind saying I was extremely nervous as I slowly climbed the tree inch by inch through its mass of prickly branches covered with pitch. If you have ever touched a spruce you will know what I am talking about when I say prickly branches, as nothing is pricklier then a spruce. And yes, don’t forget the pitch, I came down covered with pitch, but I rescued a $700 balloon. I felt good about it, not so much that I had rescued a $700 balloon, but because I made it down alive.
Much of our experiments were on or near the property where the Canadian Military Engineers bivouacked several times a year and we got to see them practice their war games as we drove to our study area. I was always curious as to what they were doing as they ran around blowing things up and whatever else they did to sharpen their skills.
On the way to our study area and the military reserve was the local dump, which had the most amazing stuff, mostly because of the military’s presence. We found ourselves checking the dump every day after work to see what new items had shown up at our “tasty pantry”. Unused rations appeared every day, but the best time to visit the dump was the military’s last day out, just after they broke camp to return to their base at Chilliwack. The haul that day would be better then average as any opened cases would be tossed out with whatever was still in them.
The choicest haul ever from the dump was the time Doug rescued a case and a half of Sara Lee cherry pies. I still remember the night we ate hot cherry pie with vanilla ice cream thanks to the Canadian Military Engineers, and Carol, one of the crew said, “No way am I going to eat anything from the dump.” But when she saw us smacking our lips for more, she soon got over being squeamish, and got in on the feed.
So the question still remains, does Canada really need a military or should we rely on the US to protect our borders? You have my vote, just as long as the pie keeps coming, “Go Engineers, Go!”
Saturday, June 25, 2011
101 Marking Trees the Easy Way
Riding in a copter is kind of a neat experience and it wasn’t long after I started working with Les McMullen that the opportunity came my way. The research that Les was doing required that any bark beetle infestations within a certain distance to our study had to be eliminated. Copters were used, because ground surveillance for these spot infestations was time consuming and uncertain.
This particular morning we took off in a Bell Jet Ranger and in about fifteen minutes were at the jobsite. The ride to the site was fun and exciting, and to make the job easier when we got to the work site, Les had asked the pilot to take the doors off. Because of the rounded shape of the Bell’s body you were in fact partly sitting over nothing and could easily look down on the tops of the pine trees below.
This was kind of cool but only for a very few minutes as the pilot in following Les’ directions kept circling back and forth and you felt like a tether ball at the end of a rope. This however made it easy for Les in the meantime to fling rolls of adding machine tape out of the open doorway onto the infected pine trees for locating later by foot.
When I stated this was cool for a few minute I really meant seconds as the motion immediately overwhelmed my senses and I became as sick as a dog, maybe even sicker, if that were possible. I thought I was going to toss my cookies any second, but mercifully we were finished with that part of the operation and my head stopped spinning as we soon headed back to the airport.
You can’t believe how glad I was to climb out of the copter and wobble over to the pickup for the drive to the plot.
This particular morning we took off in a Bell Jet Ranger and in about fifteen minutes were at the jobsite. The ride to the site was fun and exciting, and to make the job easier when we got to the work site, Les had asked the pilot to take the doors off. Because of the rounded shape of the Bell’s body you were in fact partly sitting over nothing and could easily look down on the tops of the pine trees below.
This was kind of cool but only for a very few minutes as the pilot in following Les’ directions kept circling back and forth and you felt like a tether ball at the end of a rope. This however made it easy for Les in the meantime to fling rolls of adding machine tape out of the open doorway onto the infected pine trees for locating later by foot.
When I stated this was cool for a few minute I really meant seconds as the motion immediately overwhelmed my senses and I became as sick as a dog, maybe even sicker, if that were possible. I thought I was going to toss my cookies any second, but mercifully we were finished with that part of the operation and my head stopped spinning as we soon headed back to the airport.
You can’t believe how glad I was to climb out of the copter and wobble over to the pickup for the drive to the plot.
Friday, June 24, 2011
100 Camping at McLeese Lake
Les Mc Mullen was a great guy to work for but back in the eighties smoking was not considered as yet a health hazard as it now is and Les was doing his best to shorten his life and prove otherwise. Only four years later he quite on the advise of his doctor but I can still remember him trying to limit his puffing to one cigarette per fifty miles as we drove from place to place. Back then it was not in vogue to have separate rooms when on field duty so it was with great relief that I got to camp out with Sandy for a week and get away from the smoke filled room of the motel.
Sandy had come up with our tent trailer and we spent the week on McLeese Lake just a few miles north of Williams Lake. This worked out great as Les and I were working northeast of Williams Lake studying the mountain pine beetle not far from McLeese Lake and it was great to spend my nights with her instead of in a smoky motel with Les.
I remember that Les prided himself in his ability to make chile beans and insisted that Sandy and I come by for dinner at least one evening during the week so he could treat us to his special recipe. I’ll never forget it to this day, as the beans I think were delicious, but they were so spicy that I could not actually taste them. I told him they were really great but it was only a guess. The texture was great the beans were done just right with the finest beef, but I could only describe the taste as hot.
One evening that week when Sandy and I were having a great time camping by the lake and were just starting to eat dinner, Sandy drew my attention to a roaring sound coming up from the south end of McLeese lake. It sounded like a fright train or maybe like they describe a tornado as it roars by, and in moments it was just about upon us. The lake was virtually foaming white up to several feet with the velocity of the rain as it pounded its surface. It was a downpour of a magnitude that I have never seen to this day. What made it even scarier was the speed with which it was moving up the lake toward us.
We frantically tried to clear everything off of the table barely finishing in time as it roared up the shore and enveloped us in its fury. The weird thing was that there was very little if any wind, just a wall of water.
We were right near the shore at the bottom of a long slope and within minutes there was a wall of water running through our campsite fire pit and on into the lake. The next few minutes were bedlam but just as quickly as it had come it was over and the only evidence of such a happening was the channel where the river ran through our campsite and the mud splashed up on everything because of the fury of the storm.
I have often thought about that storm and am still amazed when I think about it as it compared with the worst thunderstorms I have ever experienced but with no thunder or lightening.
Sandy had come up with our tent trailer and we spent the week on McLeese Lake just a few miles north of Williams Lake. This worked out great as Les and I were working northeast of Williams Lake studying the mountain pine beetle not far from McLeese Lake and it was great to spend my nights with her instead of in a smoky motel with Les.
I remember that Les prided himself in his ability to make chile beans and insisted that Sandy and I come by for dinner at least one evening during the week so he could treat us to his special recipe. I’ll never forget it to this day, as the beans I think were delicious, but they were so spicy that I could not actually taste them. I told him they were really great but it was only a guess. The texture was great the beans were done just right with the finest beef, but I could only describe the taste as hot.
One evening that week when Sandy and I were having a great time camping by the lake and were just starting to eat dinner, Sandy drew my attention to a roaring sound coming up from the south end of McLeese lake. It sounded like a fright train or maybe like they describe a tornado as it roars by, and in moments it was just about upon us. The lake was virtually foaming white up to several feet with the velocity of the rain as it pounded its surface. It was a downpour of a magnitude that I have never seen to this day. What made it even scarier was the speed with which it was moving up the lake toward us.
We frantically tried to clear everything off of the table barely finishing in time as it roared up the shore and enveloped us in its fury. The weird thing was that there was very little if any wind, just a wall of water.
We were right near the shore at the bottom of a long slope and within minutes there was a wall of water running through our campsite fire pit and on into the lake. The next few minutes were bedlam but just as quickly as it had come it was over and the only evidence of such a happening was the channel where the river ran through our campsite and the mud splashed up on everything because of the fury of the storm.
I have often thought about that storm and am still amazed when I think about it as it compared with the worst thunderstorms I have ever experienced but with no thunder or lightening.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
99 Run for Your Life Bob Betts is Falling a Tree
Falling trees in an urban setting is quite different then when alone or out on some remote hillside by yourself. Anytime a tree is felled it creates the potential for great danger. The plan before falling a tree is to try and consider every possible scenario to minimize that danger.
Peter Burman asked me to fall a dozen or so trees that needed to be removed from a large lot before construction could begin. What made this challenging was that most of them if not felled precisely could fall on a house or a power line. Even worse three large trees leaned the wrong way and needed a push if they were not to fall on something and do serious damage.
I had been working several hours that morning but was now waiting for the excavator to come to give the three trees a push so I could finish falling them. Rather then wait I decided that I could fall one of them on my own if I was careful. After placing the undercut I was now working on the back-cut, wedging the tree behind my cut as I went. I would cut a bit, then wedge a bit, check my cut, cut a bit, then wedge a bit, cut a bit more, then I cut a bit more, when suddenly, by not continually checking, I had cut the most critical supporting corner of the hinge off and the tree was now falling out of control sideways to the intended fall, and aiming right at Peter’s fifth wheel, where his wife Karen was standing.
When Karen saw the tree coming towards her, she took off and not any too soon as the tree came crashing down on their fifth wheel messing it up royally.
What made it even scarier was that I had been talking to Rose Rudolph, Karen’s mother, just moments before. If the tree had decided to go in that direction it could have hit Rose as well as the original farmhouse on the property.
I felt terrible about the accident and only charged Peter a hundred dollars for my days work because of my incompetence. It lessened my pain some as he did have insurance that replaced his fifth wheel, but no one feels happy to have to go through such an inconvenience, and I’m sure Peter felt the same.
It was a humbling experience and it taught me a lesson to not take pride in being the hotshot faller that I thought I was. It is good to eat as they say, “Humble pie”. Potential disaster and mayhem is not far from any of us and sometimes it takes a strong lesson to smarten us up. I shudder when I think of what could have happened and feel that the Good Lord went easy on me, as no one was hurt.
Remember angels are everywhere and intervene when we least expect it.
I had been working several hours that morning but was now waiting for the excavator to come to give the three trees a push so I could finish falling them. Rather then wait I decided that I could fall one of them on my own if I was careful. After placing the undercut I was now working on the back-cut, wedging the tree behind my cut as I went. I would cut a bit, then wedge a bit, check my cut, cut a bit, then wedge a bit, cut a bit more, then I cut a bit more, when suddenly, by not continually checking, I had cut the most critical supporting corner of the hinge off and the tree was now falling out of control sideways to the intended fall, and aiming right at Peter’s fifth wheel, where his wife Karen was standing.
When Karen saw the tree coming towards her, she took off and not any too soon as the tree came crashing down on their fifth wheel messing it up royally.
What made it even scarier was that I had been talking to Rose Rudolph, Karen’s mother, just moments before. If the tree had decided to go in that direction it could have hit Rose as well as the original farmhouse on the property.
I felt terrible about the accident and only charged Peter a hundred dollars for my days work because of my incompetence. It lessened my pain some as he did have insurance that replaced his fifth wheel, but no one feels happy to have to go through such an inconvenience, and I’m sure Peter felt the same.
It was a humbling experience and it taught me a lesson to not take pride in being the hotshot faller that I thought I was. It is good to eat as they say, “Humble pie”. Potential disaster and mayhem is not far from any of us and sometimes it takes a strong lesson to smarten us up. I shudder when I think of what could have happened and feel that the Good Lord went easy on me, as no one was hurt.
Remember angels are everywhere and intervene when we least expect it.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
98 The Sergey Yesenin
One of the most scenic boat rides anywhere is the ferry ride from Vancouver to Victoria or what is commonly called the Tsawwassen to Swartz Bay run. On this particular day it was just another routine sailing for the ferry, the Queen of Victoria, a typical August afternoon back in ’70. This was soon to change, as events would soon take place that would stay in my memory for the rest of my life.
What appeared to be a normal crossing turned into a disaster. It seems there had been an accident in Active Pass between the Russian freighter, the Sergey Yesenin, and the ferry. The impact just about sliced the Queen of Victoria in half, as the Sergey Yesenin on rounding the corner into Active Pass plowed straight into the ferry’s port side.
When I arrived at the little Rest Haven Hospital to begin my six to eleven shift everyone was in a panic. The tragedy of what had happened at sea that afternoon was now continuing in the emergency room as I came on shift. Even now the doctors were frantically working to save a twenty-four year old mother who had been crushed by the freighter. She had just gone down to the car deck to nurse her small baby, unaware of what was about to happen minutes later as the freighter struck, instantly killing her nursing baby and crushing her liver. After working frantically for hours to keep her alive it was with sadness that they realized they were losing her. Blood was rushed out from Victoria in the hope of preventing the inevitable but it was with extreme sadness that they watched as the young mother slowly slipped away to join her baby.
The sadness of having to wheel her down from the OR to the temporary morgue at the hospital will always stay in my memory. All we can do for the present is wait for the time when such things will be no more than a distant memory.
What appeared to be a normal crossing turned into a disaster. It seems there had been an accident in Active Pass between the Russian freighter, the Sergey Yesenin, and the ferry. The impact just about sliced the Queen of Victoria in half, as the Sergey Yesenin on rounding the corner into Active Pass plowed straight into the ferry’s port side.
When I arrived at the little Rest Haven Hospital to begin my six to eleven shift everyone was in a panic. The tragedy of what had happened at sea that afternoon was now continuing in the emergency room as I came on shift. Even now the doctors were frantically working to save a twenty-four year old mother who had been crushed by the freighter. She had just gone down to the car deck to nurse her small baby, unaware of what was about to happen minutes later as the freighter struck, instantly killing her nursing baby and crushing her liver. After working frantically for hours to keep her alive it was with sadness that they realized they were losing her. Blood was rushed out from Victoria in the hope of preventing the inevitable but it was with extreme sadness that they watched as the young mother slowly slipped away to join her baby.
The sadness of having to wheel her down from the OR to the temporary morgue at the hospital will always stay in my memory. All we can do for the present is wait for the time when such things will be no more than a distant memory.
Monday, June 20, 2011
97 Vignettes from the Life of an Orderly
Working as an orderly can be a negative experience but humor is not far from the most tragic of moments if you watch for it. I remember being called down to the emergency room, while working the swing shift one weekend. It seems that an older East Indian man Mo Singh needed to be catheterized, the poor fellow who was in desperate straights, it seems he was unable to urinate. I wondered why the emergency room doctor, Dr Jackson did not perform the procedure himself, and I concluded he was either incompetent or felt it was beneath his station to do so. For that matter why not the nurse, nurses do everything else when necessary, but no, they wanted the orderly from third floor to do it.
On arriving in the emergency room I was handed the catheter pack while both the nurse and the doctor stood by waiting for me to attempt the procedure. Maybe they knew something that I didn’t because the minute the tip of the catheter started to slide in, poor old Mo freaked out, I mean freaked out. He started screaming at the top of his lungs like he was in mortal pain, and stiffened out until he just about slid off the gurney. I could hear Dr. Jackson swearing under his breath as he threw himself across the gurney to keep Mo from leaping off onto the emergency room floor.
The procedure is supposed to be sterile, but the numerous attempts to complete the procedure made it anything but. I gave a sight of relief when I finally saw the urine begin to flow into Mo’s urine bag.
Tragedy and comedy can at times be hard to separate and that is mostly determined by the part you play in the drama. After the stress of the moment subsides is when you can sit back and laugh at the situation.
When being stretched it is impossible to see the humor but when one looks back on a near tragedy there is usually something to laugh about. People that fail to see the humor in the vignettes of life usually become bent and twisted, or at least uninteresting and dull.
I will never forget one morning when a nurse, Ann and I were asked to move a bed from the basement to the second floor. This in it’s self was a non-event. The elevator however was vintage or today we might use the term retro as it had a scissor door that allowed you to see who was waiting at each floor to get aboard. After Ann and I had squeezed into the elevator, off we went to what we thought was second floor. It seems someone had pushed the third floor button ahead of us so off we went to third, waving as we went by the guy waiting on second. Once on third we quickly pushed for second and down we went back to the basement, again waving to the guy on second as we headed down to whomever had beaten us to the button. Ann and I are now laughing our heads off as the poor guy on second is scratching his head with an incredulous look on his face wondering what kind of insane help the hospital is now hiring.
We finally made it to second but for a brief moment I thought Ann and I were doomed to ride the elevator forever, however I can think of worse things then riding in an elevator with a pretty nurse and a bed.
On arriving in the emergency room I was handed the catheter pack while both the nurse and the doctor stood by waiting for me to attempt the procedure. Maybe they knew something that I didn’t because the minute the tip of the catheter started to slide in, poor old Mo freaked out, I mean freaked out. He started screaming at the top of his lungs like he was in mortal pain, and stiffened out until he just about slid off the gurney. I could hear Dr. Jackson swearing under his breath as he threw himself across the gurney to keep Mo from leaping off onto the emergency room floor.
The procedure is supposed to be sterile, but the numerous attempts to complete the procedure made it anything but. I gave a sight of relief when I finally saw the urine begin to flow into Mo’s urine bag.
Tragedy and comedy can at times be hard to separate and that is mostly determined by the part you play in the drama. After the stress of the moment subsides is when you can sit back and laugh at the situation.
When being stretched it is impossible to see the humor but when one looks back on a near tragedy there is usually something to laugh about. People that fail to see the humor in the vignettes of life usually become bent and twisted, or at least uninteresting and dull.
I will never forget one morning when a nurse, Ann and I were asked to move a bed from the basement to the second floor. This in it’s self was a non-event. The elevator however was vintage or today we might use the term retro as it had a scissor door that allowed you to see who was waiting at each floor to get aboard. After Ann and I had squeezed into the elevator, off we went to what we thought was second floor. It seems someone had pushed the third floor button ahead of us so off we went to third, waving as we went by the guy waiting on second. Once on third we quickly pushed for second and down we went back to the basement, again waving to the guy on second as we headed down to whomever had beaten us to the button. Ann and I are now laughing our heads off as the poor guy on second is scratching his head with an incredulous look on his face wondering what kind of insane help the hospital is now hiring.
We finally made it to second but for a brief moment I thought Ann and I were doomed to ride the elevator forever, however I can think of worse things then riding in an elevator with a pretty nurse and a bed.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
86 Forget the Snow but Go Easy on the Haul Back
After arriving back at GMG in the fall of ’64 Roy McGill, Alvin’s brother and I began falling trees farther up Boswell Inlet just past the narrows at a new site up Coho Creek. The winter of ‘64 however was very cold with snow and wind that would freeze you to the bone. Temperatures refused to leave the mid teens and that made for heavy snow falls just about every day for what seemed like weeks. You didn’t have to walk very far up the logging road from the beach to realize that every hundred yards or so the depth of the snow increased by at least a foot. This meant that we were house bound as walking around in the bush was impossible because of the thick brush and uneven ground and house fever soon set in. If the weather would ever warm up and the daily snowfall would stop it would still take a week or two of heavy rainfall to melt all the snow that had accumulated.
It was a few weeks later that it finally warmed enough for the snow to be gone so we could get back to work, with spring was just around the corner. Again it was a pleasure to watch the flying squirrels, which were again flying from tree to tree.
Roy had left me to help his brother Alvin build road, and I continued falling in a grove of spruce trees that had some of the biggest trees that I had ever seen. One old spruce measured at least eleven feet at the butt and several others were up to nine feet or more in diameter, with not a branch before a hundred feet. It was shortly after this that I fell a twelve-foot cedar the largest tree I was to ever fall.
I had just begun falling a new setting when Louis, Alvin’s partner asked me to take a break from falling and join the rigging crew under Ernie Knopp. It wasn’t long though before Ernie took off for town and I was given the remote whistle and the job of hook-tender until he returned.
It was about this time, Rollie Clarke, who was Louis nephew, left to get married. This created the need for a donkey puncher and as Louis ran the loader it seems there was no one else available to run the donkey but me. It still caught me completely by surprise when he came up to me and said, “You’re on the donkey tomorrow. I said, “No way, you have got to be kidding.”
I didn’t mind working on the rigging, but I never claimed to have run a donkey before, that’s not what I hired on for. It’s one thing to watch one being run, but it’s quite another, to actually get on one and make it happen. And Louis looked me straight in the eye and said, “You’re the man, starting tomorrow you’re on.” My heart went through my mouth and I got somewhat weak in the knees.
Tomorrow turned out to be a Friday, it should have been Friday the thirteenth for what was about to happen was tailor made for that day.
It was a few weeks later that it finally warmed enough for the snow to be gone so we could get back to work, with spring was just around the corner. Again it was a pleasure to watch the flying squirrels, which were again flying from tree to tree.
Roy had left me to help his brother Alvin build road, and I continued falling in a grove of spruce trees that had some of the biggest trees that I had ever seen. One old spruce measured at least eleven feet at the butt and several others were up to nine feet or more in diameter, with not a branch before a hundred feet. It was shortly after this that I fell a twelve-foot cedar the largest tree I was to ever fall.
I had just begun falling a new setting when Louis, Alvin’s partner asked me to take a break from falling and join the rigging crew under Ernie Knopp. It wasn’t long though before Ernie took off for town and I was given the remote whistle and the job of hook-tender until he returned.
It was about this time, Rollie Clarke, who was Louis nephew, left to get married. This created the need for a donkey puncher and as Louis ran the loader it seems there was no one else available to run the donkey but me. It still caught me completely by surprise when he came up to me and said, “You’re on the donkey tomorrow. I said, “No way, you have got to be kidding.”
I didn’t mind working on the rigging, but I never claimed to have run a donkey before, that’s not what I hired on for. It’s one thing to watch one being run, but it’s quite another, to actually get on one and make it happen. And Louis looked me straight in the eye and said, “You’re the man, starting tomorrow you’re on.” My heart went through my mouth and I got somewhat weak in the knees.
Tomorrow turned out to be a Friday, it should have been Friday the thirteenth for what was about to happen was tailor made for that day.
I had barely been on the donkey for three hours when the disaster of my life happened.
I had been around donkeys (that is the logging variety, the ones that require diesel or gasoline) all of my life, so I knew that to do it right you had to (1), haul the butt rigging and chokers out to precisely where the chocker man was so he could hook on the next log, and (2), do it smoothly no bouncing of the rigging along the way.
The throttle was wide open, the haul back drum was winding in at maximum speed, as it pulled the butt rigging with the chokers out through the bush at warp speed, I was tensely waiting for the horn to sound so I could stop the whole she-bang right on target.
The horn sounded, my right foot slammed on the mainline break, my right hand threw the haul-back friction leaver to off, while my left hand jerked the throttle to idle, my left foot dogged the haul-back break, but nothing happened and the drum began to slowly unwind from the thousands of pounds put on it by the weight of the mainline with its heavy butt rigging and chokers.
In a matter of moments the drum was unwinding at blinding speed as the break band had broken. As I was new to the job it did not occur to me to throw the friction lever and essentially stop the drum from spinning. Literally seconds later the drum had unspooled to the point that one of the many loops went into the turning gears and jammed the drum to a sudden stop.
In the meantime my face had blanched in fear as loose cable was flying everywhere. I didn’t breathe easy until after it got in the gears. But what now? My short career as a donkey puncher was obviously in jeopardy as my perceived lack of discernment had obviously compromised the whole operation. Louis however did not say a word but he and the crew immediately went to work and for the rest of the day proceeded to undo the mess.
Five hours later the $3000 haul back cable was all unwound so it could be spliced back together and wound back onto its drum ready for work Monday morning. When I suggested to Louis that maybe he should find another donkey puncher he response was, “Now you have to prove yourself.” And that was the end of the discussion.
The break band broke at least two more times that spring and as they say once a lesson is well learned there is no fear of a screw up the second time.
I had been around donkeys (that is the logging variety, the ones that require diesel or gasoline) all of my life, so I knew that to do it right you had to (1), haul the butt rigging and chokers out to precisely where the chocker man was so he could hook on the next log, and (2), do it smoothly no bouncing of the rigging along the way.
The throttle was wide open, the haul back drum was winding in at maximum speed, as it pulled the butt rigging with the chokers out through the bush at warp speed, I was tensely waiting for the horn to sound so I could stop the whole she-bang right on target.
The horn sounded, my right foot slammed on the mainline break, my right hand threw the haul-back friction leaver to off, while my left hand jerked the throttle to idle, my left foot dogged the haul-back break, but nothing happened and the drum began to slowly unwind from the thousands of pounds put on it by the weight of the mainline with its heavy butt rigging and chokers.
In a matter of moments the drum was unwinding at blinding speed as the break band had broken. As I was new to the job it did not occur to me to throw the friction lever and essentially stop the drum from spinning. Literally seconds later the drum had unspooled to the point that one of the many loops went into the turning gears and jammed the drum to a sudden stop.
In the meantime my face had blanched in fear as loose cable was flying everywhere. I didn’t breathe easy until after it got in the gears. But what now? My short career as a donkey puncher was obviously in jeopardy as my perceived lack of discernment had obviously compromised the whole operation. Louis however did not say a word but he and the crew immediately went to work and for the rest of the day proceeded to undo the mess.
Five hours later the $3000 haul back cable was all unwound so it could be spliced back together and wound back onto its drum ready for work Monday morning. When I suggested to Louis that maybe he should find another donkey puncher he response was, “Now you have to prove yourself.” And that was the end of the discussion.
The break band broke at least two more times that spring and as they say once a lesson is well learned there is no fear of a screw up the second time.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
96 Born In The USA
Of the many places to camp on Vancouver Island none had more charm and allurement then the many spots along the Cowichan River. Over the years this must have been one of our most favorite places to spend a long weekend, or any weekend for that matter.
There was one particular spot where the narrow sandy lane in was only known by a few and the first one there, had a piece of paradise on a secluded gravel bar by the river bank. The beauty of this secluded spot was that when the stars came out they just hung there by the thousand, like so many grapes ready to pluck.
This particular week end Tom and Dorsia Harter had decided to go camping with Sandy and I. We arrived at the river a little later then we had planned and our secluded spot had already been taken. I was somewhat disappointed but decided to make the best of the situation, even if paradise was lost, at least for that weekend.
What to do now? Make the best of it, which turned out to be the worst of it, as the spot we finally chose was not far from a group of beer drinking partiers. My mistake was that I did not realize the full folly of my choice until we had set up the tent trailer and had bedded down for the night. I kept thinking I should get up and move to a quieter location, but that meant taking down the tent trailer, what a hassle, after having turned in for the night. It was at this point that I realized that the speakers, sitting on the hood of one of the partiers pickup, and cranked to full volume, were there to stay.
I rolled over thinking that at anytime the party would end and all would be peace and quiet, but that was wishful thinking. Try going to sleep with what sounds like the beat of African drums pounding in your head. By morning, “Born In the USA” by Bruce Springsteen was totally burned into our brains. And it wasn’t until five thirty that morning that Bruce Springsteen and his band along with a dozen other rockers finally faded into the distance as the guy with the pickup slowly drove off, leaving his buddies to sleep it off, and yours truly and company to finally get a few minutes of sleep.
One negative experience cannot erase all of the good times we had camping along the Cowichan River, or all the fun we had when we used to tube down the river on inner tube rafts. Those were the days I will always remember and cherish in my book of memories.
There was one particular spot where the narrow sandy lane in was only known by a few and the first one there, had a piece of paradise on a secluded gravel bar by the river bank. The beauty of this secluded spot was that when the stars came out they just hung there by the thousand, like so many grapes ready to pluck.
This particular week end Tom and Dorsia Harter had decided to go camping with Sandy and I. We arrived at the river a little later then we had planned and our secluded spot had already been taken. I was somewhat disappointed but decided to make the best of the situation, even if paradise was lost, at least for that weekend.
What to do now? Make the best of it, which turned out to be the worst of it, as the spot we finally chose was not far from a group of beer drinking partiers. My mistake was that I did not realize the full folly of my choice until we had set up the tent trailer and had bedded down for the night. I kept thinking I should get up and move to a quieter location, but that meant taking down the tent trailer, what a hassle, after having turned in for the night. It was at this point that I realized that the speakers, sitting on the hood of one of the partiers pickup, and cranked to full volume, were there to stay.
I rolled over thinking that at anytime the party would end and all would be peace and quiet, but that was wishful thinking. Try going to sleep with what sounds like the beat of African drums pounding in your head. By morning, “Born In the USA” by Bruce Springsteen was totally burned into our brains. And it wasn’t until five thirty that morning that Bruce Springsteen and his band along with a dozen other rockers finally faded into the distance as the guy with the pickup slowly drove off, leaving his buddies to sleep it off, and yours truly and company to finally get a few minutes of sleep.
One negative experience cannot erase all of the good times we had camping along the Cowichan River, or all the fun we had when we used to tube down the river on inner tube rafts. Those were the days I will always remember and cherish in my book of memories.
Monday, June 13, 2011
94 Ducking Bullets at Burnt Bridge
Some of the most enjoyable times with family and friends I owe to Claude Brousson who introduced me to the recreational pastime of camping. We had not been long in our new home and had hardly settled in when Claude befriended us. He and his family soon became our closest friends and we could be found at each other’s places most weekends. As Claude and Donna with their kids were camping fanatics, before we knew it, we were out with them any nice weekend and some not so nice, throughout the summer.
Mandy was just a baby when we got into this camping thing and she used to sit eating sand to the point that it reminded me of an ad on TV about these little plastic people with the big bottoms and the line went, “Weebles wobble but they won’t fall down.” I figured that she had so much sand in her bottom that she just like a Weeble would never fall over. I guess sand is not toxic as Mandy never got plugged up or sick from eating too much.
But on with the story. I will never forget a long weekend at Burnt Bridge along the Koksilah River just west of Shawnigan Lake. We loved this spot as it was usually not to crowded and the Koksilah River wondered its way through the area with dozens of places to set up your rig. This particular weekend was more then busy much to our dismay but we had gotten there early enough to find a good spot along with three or four other families.
I can still remember how lovely the weekend had turned out to be as we were just sitting there relaxing in the warm sunshine with not a care in the world. When suddenly we heard a gunshot off in the distance, but our complacency suddenly turned into terror as seconds later we heard the whistle of bullets as they shot over our heads and splattered into the trees. Everyone quickly dived for cover as fast as they could but the bullets kept whizzing by. It seemed longer then I’m sure it was, until the last shot was fired and we could again breathe easy. Our hearts eventually quite pounding and we all finally dug ourselves out of hiding, none the worse for the experience, but still a bit shaken and a little less trusting.
We drove back to the nearest RCMP Detachment at Shawnigan Lake but there was nothing they could do, or were willing to do until someone was shot. That did not make any of us feel very relieved, as no one was willing to sacrifice himself so the rest of us could rest easy for the weekend, at least not me, and Claude did not think he was read to sacrifice himself as yet, so we just nervously waited for the weekend to end.
Mandy was just a baby when we got into this camping thing and she used to sit eating sand to the point that it reminded me of an ad on TV about these little plastic people with the big bottoms and the line went, “Weebles wobble but they won’t fall down.” I figured that she had so much sand in her bottom that she just like a Weeble would never fall over. I guess sand is not toxic as Mandy never got plugged up or sick from eating too much.
But on with the story. I will never forget a long weekend at Burnt Bridge along the Koksilah River just west of Shawnigan Lake. We loved this spot as it was usually not to crowded and the Koksilah River wondered its way through the area with dozens of places to set up your rig. This particular weekend was more then busy much to our dismay but we had gotten there early enough to find a good spot along with three or four other families.
I can still remember how lovely the weekend had turned out to be as we were just sitting there relaxing in the warm sunshine with not a care in the world. When suddenly we heard a gunshot off in the distance, but our complacency suddenly turned into terror as seconds later we heard the whistle of bullets as they shot over our heads and splattered into the trees. Everyone quickly dived for cover as fast as they could but the bullets kept whizzing by. It seemed longer then I’m sure it was, until the last shot was fired and we could again breathe easy. Our hearts eventually quite pounding and we all finally dug ourselves out of hiding, none the worse for the experience, but still a bit shaken and a little less trusting.
We drove back to the nearest RCMP Detachment at Shawnigan Lake but there was nothing they could do, or were willing to do until someone was shot. That did not make any of us feel very relieved, as no one was willing to sacrifice himself so the rest of us could rest easy for the weekend, at least not me, and Claude did not think he was read to sacrifice himself as yet, so we just nervously waited for the weekend to end.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
93 Kinky, the Cat With Eleven Lives
Why name a cat Kinky? Simple he was a runt of a Siamese with a kinky tail. He was Bobby’s cat and Bobby loved that cat, and I guess the rest of the family did too, even if the last inch of his tail was kinked.
Let me tell you a story about that cat that proves that a cat has nine lives maybe even more. It happened this way; it was a typical morning when I was scrambling to get to work on time. I had just started the car when I heard such a racket like you’ve never heard before. It was a sort of hissing and spitting sound with a clunking and bumping sound and them all was quiet.
I quickly shut the engine off, jumped out of the car but saw nothing, so I opened the hood to take a peek. For some reason the fan belt was laying there cut in half and there seemed to be long claw marks like something was desperately trying to hold on. I soon figured out what had happed as I saw what looked like a dead Siamese cat lying on the ground under the car.
It appeared that old Kink had been startled from a sound sleep beside the engine as it started up, and in his panic had jumped in the way of the fan belt. This pulled him into the fan breaking the belt and tearing a six-inch strip of fur off his back. It was in his terror of trying to escape the fan that he had left the long claw marks in the steel of the car body.
I went running into the house and told Sandy that I had killed old Kink and that he was still under the car looking quite dead. We both went running outside and as we rounded the corner of the house who should we meet but poor old Kink staggering like a drunk and meowing in the most pitiful way. I thought any minute he was going to fall down he was staggering so badly. I rushed over to him and cradled him in my arms and took him inside and made a bed for him. He didn’t seem to have any broken bones, which was a miracle, but he looked so chewed up I knew he was hurting all over, especially where his back had been scraped raw by the radiator fan. We phoned the vet who said there was nothing he could do and if there were no broken bones, we should just do what we were doing until he was healed.
Old Kink however did not like the six-inch scab that formed on his back and kept grabbing it in his teeth and ripping it off down to raw meat. To prevent him doing further damage to himself we cut holes in a wool work sock and made him a wool suit, which he had to wear until his back was completely healed, as he kept pulling the scab off otherwise.
We loved that old cat even more even with crossed eyes, as a little while later a car hit him and sort of screwed his left eye up so we now knew for sure that he had at least ten lives. After that every time he saw a car driving by in the street he would growl and run the other direction. I tried holding him once as a car drove by and he about scratched me to pieces in his desperation to run the other way.
At last the day came when we suspected that old Kink had used up his eleventh and last life as he went missing and we feared for the worst. On checking around the neighborhood we discovered that the neighbor across the street had found a cat that had dragged itself up by the shrubs next to his house and died. We went over and sure enough it was old Kink who had run out of lives. We were all terrible sad and carried him home where we gave him an honourable burial in the back yard. Bobby shed some tears but we all felt like crying as Kink had wormed his way into all of our hearts and we knew we would miss him.
I quickly shut the engine off, jumped out of the car but saw nothing, so I opened the hood to take a peek. For some reason the fan belt was laying there cut in half and there seemed to be long claw marks like something was desperately trying to hold on. I soon figured out what had happed as I saw what looked like a dead Siamese cat lying on the ground under the car.
It appeared that old Kink had been startled from a sound sleep beside the engine as it started up, and in his panic had jumped in the way of the fan belt. This pulled him into the fan breaking the belt and tearing a six-inch strip of fur off his back. It was in his terror of trying to escape the fan that he had left the long claw marks in the steel of the car body.
I went running into the house and told Sandy that I had killed old Kink and that he was still under the car looking quite dead. We both went running outside and as we rounded the corner of the house who should we meet but poor old Kink staggering like a drunk and meowing in the most pitiful way. I thought any minute he was going to fall down he was staggering so badly. I rushed over to him and cradled him in my arms and took him inside and made a bed for him. He didn’t seem to have any broken bones, which was a miracle, but he looked so chewed up I knew he was hurting all over, especially where his back had been scraped raw by the radiator fan. We phoned the vet who said there was nothing he could do and if there were no broken bones, we should just do what we were doing until he was healed.
Old Kink however did not like the six-inch scab that formed on his back and kept grabbing it in his teeth and ripping it off down to raw meat. To prevent him doing further damage to himself we cut holes in a wool work sock and made him a wool suit, which he had to wear until his back was completely healed, as he kept pulling the scab off otherwise.
We loved that old cat even more even with crossed eyes, as a little while later a car hit him and sort of screwed his left eye up so we now knew for sure that he had at least ten lives. After that every time he saw a car driving by in the street he would growl and run the other direction. I tried holding him once as a car drove by and he about scratched me to pieces in his desperation to run the other way.
At last the day came when we suspected that old Kink had used up his eleventh and last life as he went missing and we feared for the worst. On checking around the neighborhood we discovered that the neighbor across the street had found a cat that had dragged itself up by the shrubs next to his house and died. We went over and sure enough it was old Kink who had run out of lives. We were all terrible sad and carried him home where we gave him an honourable burial in the back yard. Bobby shed some tears but we all felt like crying as Kink had wormed his way into all of our hearts and we knew we would miss him.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
92 The Old Farmhouse
The anticipation of a new job and the challenges that it brings were soon put to the test in the next few weeks. The dream of having a job with a steady paycheck had come true, but the reality of making enough to live on while being thus employed failed to materialize. With the school bill to pay off but very few other expenses, it was still a hand to mouth existence because of my extremely low pay. We ate our meals on the coffee table until we could afford to buy a kitchen table. I soon realized that my part time job at the hospital was not a job to enable us to by those dreamed for extras, but was necessary if we were to even survive.
We were fortunate to move into a basic duplex on a slab, which the previous orderly had vacated when I replaced him at the hospital. It was in a low area of town where heavy humidity caused mold and moisture to creep up the walls from the always-wet floor especially under the bed.
A year later we were happy to move into a fifty year old farm house which was not insulated, very drafty and cold, but the floor was dry and without any mould. It did have an oil furnace but the only warm room was in the small kitchen, which was heated by the oil-burning cook stove, which also heated the water.
We were fortunate to move into a basic duplex on a slab, which the previous orderly had vacated when I replaced him at the hospital. It was in a low area of town where heavy humidity caused mold and moisture to creep up the walls from the always-wet floor especially under the bed.
A year later we were happy to move into a fifty year old farm house which was not insulated, very drafty and cold, but the floor was dry and without any mould. It did have an oil furnace but the only warm room was in the small kitchen, which was heated by the oil-burning cook stove, which also heated the water.
The winter of sixty-nine was very cold and the long driveway up to the house was impossible to keep clear of snow, not only was that a problem but because the house was not insulated the water kept freezing. This caused the water pipes to over heat and make such a banging and clanging sound that it sounded like the kitchen stove was going to explode and take the kitchen with it.
I can also remember sitting on the sofa in the living room by the huge roaring fireplace, watching TV with the cold wind screaming through the cracks in the walls as it did it’s best to suck us up the chimney.
We lived in the old farmhouse for five years until we had saved enough money for a new house. The old farmhouse did have character and it was with some sadness and many fond memories mixed with anticipation that we finally made the move into our new digs up the street. In spite of all its shortcomings it was still a great old place and Mandy who was raised in it the first four years of her life, cried when it was finally torn down.
Mel Baldwin, our landlord, was a great guy and if it hadn’t been for him letting me work off some of the down payment by making and shaking the roof and painting mine and my neighbor’s house inside, we wouldn’t have qualified for the mortgage.
Life isn’t always easy but the beauty of life is the nice people you meet from time to time that sweeten the road with those little acts of kindness and opportunities to enable you to grow.
I can also remember sitting on the sofa in the living room by the huge roaring fireplace, watching TV with the cold wind screaming through the cracks in the walls as it did it’s best to suck us up the chimney.
We lived in the old farmhouse for five years until we had saved enough money for a new house. The old farmhouse did have character and it was with some sadness and many fond memories mixed with anticipation that we finally made the move into our new digs up the street. In spite of all its shortcomings it was still a great old place and Mandy who was raised in it the first four years of her life, cried when it was finally torn down.
Mel Baldwin, our landlord, was a great guy and if it hadn’t been for him letting me work off some of the down payment by making and shaking the roof and painting mine and my neighbor’s house inside, we wouldn’t have qualified for the mortgage.
Life isn’t always easy but the beauty of life is the nice people you meet from time to time that sweeten the road with those little acts of kindness and opportunities to enable you to grow.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
88 No More Bonanza Restaurants etc.
Some things are remembered because they are such that the soul refuses to let go of them because of the pleasure and joy that they bring. Other things are remembered not because of the joy and pleasure they bring but because of the total disaster that they once created in a person’s life, and let’s just face it, they make a good story, people like to hear about disasters, and of course a good winner.
The story that I am about to tell took place all within a 24 hour period in and around Kamloops. To say this is a story about a winner might be pushing it a bit, but by days end no one was killed.
Eric, my summer student and I had arrived in Kamloops the night before and were now holed up in an entry-level motel on the east side of the downtown.
My first mistake was that I decided that we should eat dinner at a Bonanza Restaurant. I had no reason to believe that this was a bad decision until about 1 o’clock the following morning when I was slowly pulled out of a restless sleep by a relentless feeling of nausea that increased in intensity as it consumed me; the hours had slowly dragged by. At one point I got up because of the misery of the moment and went to the bathroom hoping to relieve myself of the consuming nausea by sticking a toothbrush down my throat to upchuck the offending dinner of the night before, and maybe get a few minutes sleep before sun up, but to no avail.
Morning found me feeling just as nauseous but rather then lose a days work, we took off for the bush after Eric had eaten his breakfast. We were hardly out of town when I yelled for to Eric to stop, I barely had time to get out of the truck and barf my guts out. After taking a drink of water I seemed to feel a bit better but a few miles later I again shouted to Eric who screeched to a stop a second time, and not any to soon. I will say Eric was tough, he did not seem to let my puking bother him in the least, he hung onto the steering wheel grim faced and determined.
My second mistake was that on arriving at the stand and parking the truck at the landing, I gave Eric the compass because I felt to weak to run the line into the plot. Eric was not familiar with a compass, but we managed to find the plot with out too much difficulty. It was after we were ready to leave the plot that I knew we were in trouble. It seemed Eric did not take note of the original bearing and after wondering around for several hours in the course of our work we were now lost.
My day was not going well. To say we were lost was not entirely correct but thrashing around in the bush when I was to weak to walk did not make me a happy camper. After a couple hours of needless wondering with the aid of the compass we finally found the truck.
My third mistake was that I let Eric continue to drive the truck as we headed on into Kamloops. Eric was not a bad diver but his lack of experience on gravel was now cause for concern as he was giving little regard to a series of large jagged rocks that happened to be along the side of the road. Rather then be a back seat driver and suggest that he at least try to avoid them I kept my mouth shut. Moments later the right front tire had its side ripped out and down it went.
Oh the joy of fixing a flat in what was soon to become a downpour. Just as we were starting to change the tire a big thunderstorm rolled in over us. What started as a few drops of rain soon became a torrential downpour and it was only a matter of minutes before we were both soaked to the skin.
We were fortunate however to get into town before all the tire shops were closed for the day and after about an hour or so, and plenty of red tape as it was a government truck, we were finally on our way to Lytton.
Boy was I glad to finally check into a motel for the night and then have a very light bite to eat, the only thing except for water since my encounter with the Bonanza Restaurant of the night before.
Two out of three is what saved Eric, it was his good fortune that he had nothing to do with the food poisoning at the Bonanza.
Eric, my summer student and I had arrived in Kamloops the night before and were now holed up in an entry-level motel on the east side of the downtown.
My first mistake was that I decided that we should eat dinner at a Bonanza Restaurant. I had no reason to believe that this was a bad decision until about 1 o’clock the following morning when I was slowly pulled out of a restless sleep by a relentless feeling of nausea that increased in intensity as it consumed me; the hours had slowly dragged by. At one point I got up because of the misery of the moment and went to the bathroom hoping to relieve myself of the consuming nausea by sticking a toothbrush down my throat to upchuck the offending dinner of the night before, and maybe get a few minutes sleep before sun up, but to no avail.
Morning found me feeling just as nauseous but rather then lose a days work, we took off for the bush after Eric had eaten his breakfast. We were hardly out of town when I yelled for to Eric to stop, I barely had time to get out of the truck and barf my guts out. After taking a drink of water I seemed to feel a bit better but a few miles later I again shouted to Eric who screeched to a stop a second time, and not any to soon. I will say Eric was tough, he did not seem to let my puking bother him in the least, he hung onto the steering wheel grim faced and determined.
My second mistake was that on arriving at the stand and parking the truck at the landing, I gave Eric the compass because I felt to weak to run the line into the plot. Eric was not familiar with a compass, but we managed to find the plot with out too much difficulty. It was after we were ready to leave the plot that I knew we were in trouble. It seemed Eric did not take note of the original bearing and after wondering around for several hours in the course of our work we were now lost.
My day was not going well. To say we were lost was not entirely correct but thrashing around in the bush when I was to weak to walk did not make me a happy camper. After a couple hours of needless wondering with the aid of the compass we finally found the truck.
My third mistake was that I let Eric continue to drive the truck as we headed on into Kamloops. Eric was not a bad diver but his lack of experience on gravel was now cause for concern as he was giving little regard to a series of large jagged rocks that happened to be along the side of the road. Rather then be a back seat driver and suggest that he at least try to avoid them I kept my mouth shut. Moments later the right front tire had its side ripped out and down it went.
Oh the joy of fixing a flat in what was soon to become a downpour. Just as we were starting to change the tire a big thunderstorm rolled in over us. What started as a few drops of rain soon became a torrential downpour and it was only a matter of minutes before we were both soaked to the skin.
We were fortunate however to get into town before all the tire shops were closed for the day and after about an hour or so, and plenty of red tape as it was a government truck, we were finally on our way to Lytton.
Boy was I glad to finally check into a motel for the night and then have a very light bite to eat, the only thing except for water since my encounter with the Bonanza Restaurant of the night before.
Two out of three is what saved Eric, it was his good fortune that he had nothing to do with the food poisoning at the Bonanza.
Monday, June 6, 2011
91 Give Me a Job Any Job
What once seemed like a long road, when it was finally completed melted into the memories and the satisfaction of a job well done. I had paid my dues and graduation was now over, but the reality of the present dictated that I had to find a job and the sooner the better.
My motivation for entering university in the first place was to acquire that all-important key to a world with no working in the rain, no need to work outside in the mud and cold, no noisy engines, and no lay-offs because of weather but a steady job with a steady paycheck. I now had the key, but my key had Biology written on it and it seemed that there were very few doors that had locks cut to that key.
So it was off to my folks, (what would we do without somebody that loved us,) for at least three months with a wife and now two kids. I felt sorry for my parents but they hunkered down and carried us until I was able to finally land a job.
After sending out numerous résumés I was very excited to travel down to Victoria for three job interviews. Sandy and I took off post haste to see what awaited us in Victoria. In my desperation I applied for all three even though I was only interested in the one at the Pacific Forestry Centre.
I knew I had flunked the aptitude test for selling life insurance but I was immediately hired as an orderly at the Rest Haven Hospital, which I said yes to pending the outcome of the interview at Pacific Forestry Centre.
My interview at the PFC was much more formal but had to be delayed for several hours because of an accident. It seemed that just prior to my arrival Dr. Joe Baker had been analyzing soils for nitrogen in his chemistry lab when suddenly there was an explosion that blew the glass out of the fume hood, besides blowing all of the lights out along with the windows in the room. As he was looking into the fume hood at the time, it blew him out into the hallway, leaving him just about blind.
After some delay someone finally explained the drama that had just taken place and my interview finally began. Even though it had gotten off to a rough start I felt good after being questioned by my future boss, Dr. Rod Carrow, another scientist, Dr. Les McMullen, who I would eventually work for, and a man from the personnel department.
It was with a light heart that Sandy and I returned home to my folk’s place to prepare for the job working as an orderly. But we hadn’t even got packed when I received a phone call from the PFC saying I was hired, and so began a thirty-year career with the PFC and three years of part-time work as an orderly at the Rest Haven Hospital.
It seemed my skill as a rear gunner was sorely needed, at the Rest Haven Hospital and we could sure use the extra money. As it turned out I worked at the hospital up to sixty-five hours a month, three five hour shifts each week and usually one full shift on the weekends.
My motivation for entering university in the first place was to acquire that all-important key to a world with no working in the rain, no need to work outside in the mud and cold, no noisy engines, and no lay-offs because of weather but a steady job with a steady paycheck. I now had the key, but my key had Biology written on it and it seemed that there were very few doors that had locks cut to that key.
So it was off to my folks, (what would we do without somebody that loved us,) for at least three months with a wife and now two kids. I felt sorry for my parents but they hunkered down and carried us until I was able to finally land a job.
After sending out numerous résumés I was very excited to travel down to Victoria for three job interviews. Sandy and I took off post haste to see what awaited us in Victoria. In my desperation I applied for all three even though I was only interested in the one at the Pacific Forestry Centre.
I knew I had flunked the aptitude test for selling life insurance but I was immediately hired as an orderly at the Rest Haven Hospital, which I said yes to pending the outcome of the interview at Pacific Forestry Centre.
My interview at the PFC was much more formal but had to be delayed for several hours because of an accident. It seemed that just prior to my arrival Dr. Joe Baker had been analyzing soils for nitrogen in his chemistry lab when suddenly there was an explosion that blew the glass out of the fume hood, besides blowing all of the lights out along with the windows in the room. As he was looking into the fume hood at the time, it blew him out into the hallway, leaving him just about blind.
After some delay someone finally explained the drama that had just taken place and my interview finally began. Even though it had gotten off to a rough start I felt good after being questioned by my future boss, Dr. Rod Carrow, another scientist, Dr. Les McMullen, who I would eventually work for, and a man from the personnel department.
It was with a light heart that Sandy and I returned home to my folk’s place to prepare for the job working as an orderly. But we hadn’t even got packed when I received a phone call from the PFC saying I was hired, and so began a thirty-year career with the PFC and three years of part-time work as an orderly at the Rest Haven Hospital.
It seemed my skill as a rear gunner was sorely needed, at the Rest Haven Hospital and we could sure use the extra money. As it turned out I worked at the hospital up to sixty-five hours a month, three five hour shifts each week and usually one full shift on the weekends.
It just about put our family into financial ruin when the hospital finally found an orderly to work full time as it meant I was not needed anymore. God always has a way of smoothing out the rough spots as a good friend, Mena Werner, came to our rescue by giving us a temporary interest free loan which we were able to pay off three years later when my wages improved at the lab.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
90 Doug and Ken and the Accident
“Boys will be boys” is a phrase that is often heard today, but to most parents, far better then the phrase,” boys will be girls” which for some might be the case. The story I’m about to tell however is based on what happened in the lives of two great kids, the son’s of Ernie and Elma Knopp. Let me put the story together as best I can, about two boys that were doing boy things, something I can see myself doing as a kid, in fact I loved mucking about with old engines and things that ran or should be running, that is what it is all about, trying to make things run.
Well, Doug and Kenny were no different and were having a grand time taking an old kicker apart to see why it didn’t run. It was a typical weekend up Boswell, cloudy with a light drizzle, a good weekend to stay indoors and mind your own business except if you used rain as an excuse for such behavior you might never leave the house.
Anyway as I was saying, the boys were having the time of their lives with the old engine when Kenny said, “It is so dark in here, go get a light Doug, while I look for some gasoline to clean the crud off the old kicker.” “OK,” said Doug as he took off for the empty house.
Their folks had taken their younger sister Laverne and had gone for the day.
Doug looked everywhere for the flashlight he knew his dad kept in the house and finally gave up and grabbed a handful of matches instead.
“Oh, you’re back! It’s about time! Here, give me a hand with the cleaning. Doug grabbed a brush and started cleaning the old engine on the other side. Just then Kenny said, “Where is that light I told you to go get, I can’t see what I am doing on this side.” With that, Doug grabbed a match and as he lit it there was a blinding flash as the pan of gasoline they were using to clean the engine burst into flames, igniting the engine and Doug completely from the waist upwards.
“Jump in the water! Jump in the water,” shouted Kenny, as Doug ran this way and that in his panic, and at last heading into the house where he jumped into the bathtub and turned the shower on. By then it was too late to prevent the flames from inflicting third degree burns over most of his upper body.
Within minutes the camp was aroused and about an hour later a plane took poor Doug to the hospital at Alert Bay where he fought for his life. He had a rough time in the hospital in Alert Bay and suffered a lot, even picking up staph infection. He had to eventually be flown to a hospital in Vancouver, where he stayed for some time. Despite the many scars from his fiery ordeal Doug was very fortunate that none of the burns occurred on his face. It was with great joy that many months later he was able to fly home and be with his family.
We will never know in this life what leads us to the actions that we sometimes take, but we do know that the hand of God oftimes intervenes despite our errors in judgment.
Well, Doug and Kenny were no different and were having a grand time taking an old kicker apart to see why it didn’t run. It was a typical weekend up Boswell, cloudy with a light drizzle, a good weekend to stay indoors and mind your own business except if you used rain as an excuse for such behavior you might never leave the house.
Anyway as I was saying, the boys were having the time of their lives with the old engine when Kenny said, “It is so dark in here, go get a light Doug, while I look for some gasoline to clean the crud off the old kicker.” “OK,” said Doug as he took off for the empty house.
Their folks had taken their younger sister Laverne and had gone for the day.
Doug looked everywhere for the flashlight he knew his dad kept in the house and finally gave up and grabbed a handful of matches instead.
“Oh, you’re back! It’s about time! Here, give me a hand with the cleaning. Doug grabbed a brush and started cleaning the old engine on the other side. Just then Kenny said, “Where is that light I told you to go get, I can’t see what I am doing on this side.” With that, Doug grabbed a match and as he lit it there was a blinding flash as the pan of gasoline they were using to clean the engine burst into flames, igniting the engine and Doug completely from the waist upwards.
“Jump in the water! Jump in the water,” shouted Kenny, as Doug ran this way and that in his panic, and at last heading into the house where he jumped into the bathtub and turned the shower on. By then it was too late to prevent the flames from inflicting third degree burns over most of his upper body.
Within minutes the camp was aroused and about an hour later a plane took poor Doug to the hospital at Alert Bay where he fought for his life. He had a rough time in the hospital in Alert Bay and suffered a lot, even picking up staph infection. He had to eventually be flown to a hospital in Vancouver, where he stayed for some time. Despite the many scars from his fiery ordeal Doug was very fortunate that none of the burns occurred on his face. It was with great joy that many months later he was able to fly home and be with his family.
We will never know in this life what leads us to the actions that we sometimes take, but we do know that the hand of God oftimes intervenes despite our errors in judgment.
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Bird Cove
Looking East from House