SS Catala: Ch 2 (Memoir)

Summary:  In 1953, when I was five and my brother was three, my father proposed that our family move from Vancouver to a remote logging camp on Vancouver Island where he and my mother had been offered teaching positions. This admittedly out-of-order chapter marks the start of our 3-day journey there.


My brother and I quivered with excitement on the morning we left Vancouver. We had never sailed on a ship of any kind, and now here we were, standing at the foot of the gangplank in Canada’s largest port, ready to board the steamship SS Catala.

“Do we really get to sleep overnight on this boat?” I asked, looking up at my folks.

“We really do,” laughed my mother. “We’ll have our own private cabin. The ship doesn’t arrive at Englewood until noon tomorrow!”

This was a thrill beyond words for two small children who had never before travelled out of the city, let alone slept on a real ship. We could hardly contain ourselves.

The Catala looked huge from where we stood. It was a steel, twin-propeller passenger freighter with 20 cabin berths and a cargo capacity of three hundred tons. Called the SS Catala, it formed part of the Union Steamship Line, a cargo and passenger line which serviced remote communities along the northern BC coast.

“See how the bottom is painted red and the upper part is black?” said Dad. “All the Union Steamships are painted the same way. They were all built in Scotland and brought over here in 1925. That’s more than 25 years ago, kids!”

We clambered aboard. Soon our heads were full of wooden decks and chunky, white portholes. After standing at the rail for some time and watching huge crates being loaded by crane into the hold of the ship, we climbed to the upper deck.

Everything was new to us. We discovered a covered deck halfway down the ship with shuffleboard pitch painted onto its wooden planking. We found discarded chairs, stacked in a corner and covered by heavy tarpaulins. We craned our necks at the huge, black-and-red funnels towering above the steep, “crew only” staircase. We peered excitedly at the lifeboats and ran our hands along thick ropes and polished, wooden railings.

An hour after we’d boarded her, the steamer pulled out of Vancouver harbour and headed west into Burrard Inlet, past the docks of the North Shore, where loose piles of bright yellow sulphur towered skyward like inverted traffic cones. The morning sky was cloudy, with the kind of misty overhang unique to the west coast. There was a chill in the air that made our noses run and defied any sweater or coat, but we were used to this and didn’t give it much thought. We hugged close the notion of sleeping overnight on this great monster, and this was enough to keep us warm. Having toured the ship, we kids were as ready as the other passengers to watch the Catala negotiate the narrow passage under the Lions Gate Bridge, a suspension bridge similar in appearance to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Fransisco, only much shorter.

As we approached the bridge, everyone clambered onto the upper decks. We had travelled across the bridge many times in the family Ford, but to see it from below was a rare treat and not one to be missed. In our collective minds, there was always the danger that the ship wouldn’t clear the bridge.

“What if those tall chimneys scrape the bridge and come off?” I asked, meaning the tall, red-and-black smokestacks. “What if we tip over?”

Dad laughed. “Lots of room!” he said. “It just looks narrow from here. Not to worry.”

I wasn’t convinced, still believing the funnels might scrape along the bottom surface of the span and scuttle the ship. Pleasantly horrified, I held my breath as the distance between the Catala and that great ribbon of concrete narrowed. Would we make it? To my untutored mind, it was a case of irresistible force meeting immovable object.

People got out their Kodak box cameras. Suddenly, the huge cables of the suspension bridge drooped and swooped above us like streamers at a birthday party, forcing heads back to watch the unfolding drama. At the very moment of potential contact, there was a tense silence on the decks. Then we were under with buckets of room to spare! It seemed incredible to us that such a large ship could pass through such a narrow space, but of course, ships even larger than the Catala sail under that bridge today. It was a fine lesson on the tricky optics of perspective.

I felt immense relief. Reassuring, too, was that immediately after the bridge, the channel widened out. We passed the endless beach of Spanish Banks on our port side and the Point Atkinson lighthouse on our starboard side. Calm returned to the passengers as we watched the pale, yellow lighthouse blinking in the distance.

“Wanna hear a good lighthouse story?” said an older man standing near the rail on our side. He wore a slicker and a canvass rain hat. “This here ship had quite an adventure fifteen years ago, up near Prince Rupert.”

“Tell us!” we cried.

“Well, farther north, the ship sailed past Egg Island, in Queen Charlotte Strait. Noticing that the lighthouse was strangely dark, the Captain tied a rope around his waist and swam to the Island.”

“He swam?” our eyes were agog.

“That’s what they say. Anyway, he found the lighthouse’s usual keepers missing and the remnants of their last meal on the table. After resurrecting the light, he came across two overturned fishing boats and suspected that the lighthouse keepers had been drowned. They were never heard from again.”

“My goodness,” said my father. “Is that a true story?”

“Yep,” said the stranger. “I should know because I was that captain!”

He sauntered off, smiling at our gaping mouths. It was difficult to believe that anyone would jump into these cold northern waters voluntarily. My mother was skeptical.

“I think he just made that story up,” she whispered.

Soon, however, we caught sight of the Point Atkinson lighthouse on the starboard side.We watched its light wink on and off, then we swivelled around to watch the headland of Point Grey pass by on the opposite side, where the university sat atop some sizable cliffs. On the beaches below, one or two crumbling gun emplacements and submarine watchtowers still sat, remnants of home defense efforts during WW II.

We had truly left Vancouver and soon floated in the vastness of the Georgia Strait, with low, brontosaurian humps of land visible in the distance on either side. The chill wind continued to cut through our clothing, so we decided to head inside to our cabin.

Stranded in Englewood – Ch. 3

In 1953, my parents moved with two small children to a remote logging camp on Vancouver Island, inaccessible by road. It was my father’s first teaching job, the principalship of a two-room school. The second teacher? My mother. This chapter outlines our arrival at the halfway point in our journey.

My father burst into our stateroom after an early walk to the bow of the ship.

“She’s docked! We’re here! Everybody up!”

Rousing ourselves, we were soon shivering on the wooden deck of the steamship Catala and peering out at a thick, forested world. My brother rubbed his eyes and clung irritably to our mother.

“I hope we get breakfast before we get off,” she muttered, shifting him around. “What a cold, busy place!”

She was right. The whole area was alive on this grey, misty morning. Logs choked the bay surrounding the dock. They bobbled and jockeyed for position, roiling around in the choppy waters. Men in boots and woollen clothing dotted the pier. Fork lifts rumbled across the wooden dock, running steadily at piles of logs or lumber, picking up great stacks of wood, dumping loose logs into other piles or trundling stacked lumber into various sheds.

“I don’t know where to look,” chuckled Dad. “What do you suppose….” His final words were lost as a rail car to our left released its logs and sent thirty thousand pounds thundering like an avalanche into the salt chuck below. White spume billowed well above the pier, and fingers flew into ears.

“Omigosh!” shouted my mother. “I wish we’d known that was coming!” Rubbernecking passengers beside us stood in stunned silence. Few had seen such a sight. We felt as if we were in an action movie.

Our city eyes gaped, watching dock workers in hard hats and flannel tees striding along the oily pier or darting in and out of big, green shacks nestled the whole way along, with the massive, green mountains for a backdrop. A huge A-frame, used for loading and unloading logs, loomed in the middle-distance, while tugboats bustled about the log booms like harried nannies. The booms lay everywhere; one could almost walk to shore just hopping from one log to the next. In fact, men with peavies – long spiked poles – did something similar; they burled and poked stray logs into position within each boom.

“The lower-grade logs go for pulping,” another shivering passenger pointed out. “And look at those tugs, farther out, wrestling with whole booms.” It was a stunning sight, as busy as a crowded downtown street in rush hour, without the cars.

“I want to see!” I wailed, climbing one rung up the railing, with my father’s steady hand holding me. My mother held up my younger brother. Our hair blew around our faces and we grinned until our teeth froze in the cold breeze.

After breakfast, we scrambled down the gangplank with our suitcases. Boxes of our linens and kitchen supplies sat in the ship’s hold. Once off the ship, we huddled at one end of the dock, totally lost.

“Excuse me!” my father said to a hobnailed worker wearing green rain gear and carrying a large chunk of wood. “We’re the new teachers for Woss. Where do we catch the rail car?” The dock worker smiled. His face showed two days’ black stubble and a toothpick wobbled between his teeth.

“Speeder 121 takes passengers there once a day,” he said, slowing his pace, “and it left an hour ago. Next one is at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” Our jaws dropped.

“But we were told we could connect right away!” said my mother. “We have nowhere to stay the night!” She drew her cloth coat more closely around herself and glanced up at the surrounding forest and the grey clouds above. It was a forbidding outpost, this Englewood.

“Well, I dunno what you were told,” said the fellow,”but for sure you can’t get out until tomorrow. Maybe talk to Marge at the Canteen over there.” He gestured at one of the smaller green shacks down the pier. She can likely find you a place to stay.”

We stood there in the rain, dumbfounded. Walk the length of the pier in the rain and oil and grease? It was over seventy-five yards! Each of us carried two suitcases and the rain had begun, a cold drizzle that seeped inexorably into our shoes and coats. It was not pleasant, but what could we do? We picked up our bags and shuffled along, trying not to get in anyone’s way, stepping over cables, cords and bits of bark. My mother, who wore low heels, slipped at one point and almost fell, grabbing onto my father’s arm at the last minute.

“Welcome to Englewood,” she muttered under her breath. “It may be a log dump, but to my mind, it’s just a plain old dump!” My father at least had the grace to look sheepish, as this whole venture had been his idea.

We arrived bedraggled and grumpy at the Canteen. Dad wrestled with the heavy wooden door, propping it with a knee  to allow the rest of us to shoulder in with all our baggage. A large, friendly woman behind the tiled counter gave us a big grin and motioned us over with her beefy arm.

“Hi there, folks!” she laughed. “You seem a tad damp. Are you lost?” She stacked dirty plates into a plastic, grey tub as she spoke. Her white scrubs sported sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a red kerchief corralled her hair. She looked old to me but was likely about forty.

“We are rather lost,” said my Dad, brushing water from his hair. “We’re the new teachers for Woss.”

“New teachers, eh?” She stuck out her hand. “Glad to meet ya. Name’s Marge Brandon. Been living here fifteen years and likely to die here.” She chortled comfortably. “Leastwise, unless I can find me a man to support me so’s I can retire from all this!” She waved over a stack of dirty dishes piled up in a commercial dish-washing trough. “Anyhow, next speeder leaves tomorrow at 10. You’ll have to stay in Englewood tonight.”

“But where? We have two children!” I could tell my mother was nervous, thinking we’d have to pitch a tent on the dock and fend off cougars single-handed.

“No bother. Just head down the road there.” She pointed out the large front window toward the wall of mountains to the west. “See that white and yellow house just beyond that last shed? That’s the Michaels’ place. They’ll put you all up.” She nodded comfortably. “Don’t worry if they ain’t expecting you. They’re friendly people and always ready to take on stranded travellers.” She smiled and grabbed for a water nozzle dangling from the ceiling, then began sluicing down the dishes before stacking them in a green dish rack. We took this as our signal to leave.

The drizzle had intensified, but luckily, it was only a ten-minute walk from the dock to the dirt road and then twenty yards more to the Michaels’ house. Our hands were frozen numb from holding onto our bags. My father opened the rickety screen door and knocked without conviction. He and my mother exchanged dark looks. After a moment or two, the door was wrenched open by a couple of young kids laughing to beat heck and falling over one another. We reeled back a little, startled.

“Boys! Boys! Settle down. Where’s your manners?” An adult voice boomed in the background and a tall, portly man with a buzz cut appeared. “Hi there! Name’s Jim Michaels. I’m the First Aid guy in these parts. “Welcome to our home.”

We were grateful for the refuge. The Michaels put us up in a couple of spare rooms. They also fed us and entertained my folks with a game or two of Gin Rummy later on, while we kids played Parcheesi and Chinese Checkers on the bedroom floor with the Michaels boys, who proved to us that they could indeed settle down.

“How bad is the trip down to Woss?” I heard my mother ask at one point.

It was the Michaels’ turn to exchange looks.

“Well,” piped up Wanda, pouring out more wine. “From here, it’s two hours – about 56 miles – down to Camp Nimpkish. You have to get off the speeder there and travel one hour by boat to the Vernon Reload because the rail track doesn’t go all the way through yet.”

“After the boat ride, there’s one more speeder that takes you right into Woss,” added Jim. “But that’s a short ride– only about forty minutes. All told, it’ll take the whole day to get down to Woss. Don’t worry! We’ll make sure you have sandwiches with you.”

My mother blanched. All day! Two transfers! Two kids. Six suitcases.

“We’d better get to bed early,” she said morosely.

The next morning, the family gave us eggs with English muffins and jam before herding us back to the rail track. It was here that we caught our first glimpse of Speeder 121.

Convincing Mother – Ch. 1

“I’m sorry. I just don’t like the sound of it!”

My mother at breakfast in 1953, in the kitchen of our one-bedroom home in Vancouver. We lived a few blocks east of Little Italy, a quaint area in the city. We kids loved to walk the 2nd Avenue hill and trudge up the other side to Copp’s Shoes, which offered the most wonderful toffee suckers wrapped in wax paper if you bought any small thing – even a pair of shoelaces. What a thrill to open the wrapper and taste that creamy caramel toffee inside!

At the moment, however, toffee suckers were off the table, as it were, since my father had just proposed that we pick up and move from Vancouver, lock, stock and barrel, to a remote logging camp on Vancouver Island. Hence, my mother’s reaction.

At the time, our tiny, stucco house felt cramped and old. Cold, too, as I recall, since it rained steadily in Vancouver and my parents had to economize on heat. However, Granny Davis, who lived in our basement suite, owned a pot-bellied stove. Her place always exuded a cozy warmth. Orange poppies bordered the cement stairs down to her door, and I remember smelling their pungent odour when we visited her for tea and cookies on occasion.

My folks were young then, children of the Great Depression, struggling to raise two kids and earn enough money to keep a roof over our heads. Times had to be tough for my mother to even consider such a drastic step as my father was proposing. The Post-War boom hadn’t yet reached full momentum, so many families still struggled as we did. Luckily, Mom had attended university on scholarships and now had a full-time teaching job in an elementary school.

Looking back at their discussion, I picture my father reaching for the sugar and stirring two lumps into his coffee, then sucking on a third in the Scandinavian way. He likely wore his Yellow Cab hat, one that he no doubt hoped to “deep six” for a teacher’s garb if he could convince my mother that this move was a good thing.

“It’s a principalship in the Nimpkish Valley!” he exclaimed. “And it’s a two-room school, so you and I would be the only teachers. We’d have free reign!”

He made it sound promising, even exciting.

“Why would you be the principal when it’s your first appointment?” objected my mother. “I’m the one with the teaching experience! You’ve only just earned your diploma.”

“I agree it’s not fair, but you know how the world works, sweetie,” replied Dad. “They always offer the men the best jobs. At least the money will be all in the family. And it’s an adventure! Think of it that way. Remember, Huey Grayson will be there.”

“Your forestry friend?”

“That’s the one. He’s stationed at Woss Camp, where we’d be living. So we’ll know someone going in.”

“Yes, I remember him. He has the thickest British accent I’ve ever heard,” said Mom.

“Well, knowledge of the Queen’s English is no barrier to a love of virgin forest. He knows they could log that area for decades and hardly make a dent.”

I can certainly understand my mother’s reluctance to move. There she sat, staring at one dependent child across the kitchen table, while offering strips of toast to a smaller child on the floor beside her. It was difficult enough to be a working mother in the city. What would it be like juggling work and family in a remote logging camp?

“Who’ll look after the kids during the day?”

“We’ll find somebody. We’ll hire a nanny before we go.”

That sounded reasonable, but I’m sure that even my father, who had grown up in mining camps as a child, didn’t fully grasp how rustic those Island logging camps really were.

“There aren’t any roads!” bemoaned Mother. “How will we get in and out?”

“We’ll go by steamship from Vancouver,” said my father. “Then they have company rail cars from Englewood to the logging camps. They call them speeders.”

speeder 121 at Woss Camp
Speeder 121 at Woss Camp (courtesy of the Museum at Campbell River, BC)

“Speeders!? Good grief. I’ve seen pictures of those things,” said Mom. “They look like big tin lozenges on rail wheels. Are they safe?”

“They’re safe,” said Dad. “Not exactly luxury travel, but they have bench seating around the walls and sliding doors to get in and out. Like self-propelled boxcars, really. And it’s only a two-hour ride!”

It was true. You could only get halfway to the logging camps by steamship or by sea plane. Then you took a long railway ride in those metal contraptions, not well-equipped for passengers. And CANFOR, Canadian Forest Products, owned it all. Or leased it, which amounted to the same thing. They owned the camps, the houses in the camps, the rail line, the speeders. And for a song, they held long leases on the forests, courtesy of the BC government.

“It’s a booming frontier!” said Dad. “They’re making nothing but money logging those mountains, so everyone who works for them does pretty well.”

Then he quickly changed the subject.

“Would you like to go on a big ship, kids?” he said, glossing over the rail car part. Naturally, our young eyes lit up. Then he sweetened the deal. “And sleep in a stateroom for a whole night?”

We were sold. Or at least, I was. My mother still frowned. She did not like that our ship would dock at a remote log dump, and that when we arrived there, we’d still be in transit. She knew that Englewood existed only to receive logs from down-Island, logs which were then dumped into Queen Charlotte Strait, tied into log booms, and towed to sawmills and pulp mills in Vancouver, Prince Rupert or Victoria. Our steamship port wasn’t much more than a huge pier, cut out of the wilderness. There was no guest house.

My mother had one final protest.

“What if one of us gets sick?”

“No problem! There’s a camp medic, and they can always fly us out to Alert Bay if they have to. It’s only a twenty-minute flight by emergency float plane.”

“Twenty minutes! We could bleed to death in that time!”

As it turned out, some bleeding did take place during our stay there, and one of us did fly out on that emergency float plane.

I’ll tell you more about that when we get there.


The day Jody broke her ankle, we’d walked the King Kong fence twice each, but only one side. Our legs already ached, but we’d wanted those shorter runs to prepare for the real challenge.

Let’s do both sides now,” said Jody at last, wiping a sweaty brow with her sleeve. Her freckles stood out like brown glitter and her homely face shone.

Ok!” I said. “You go first.” I knew at the time that it should have been me, as the more athletic one, but my politeness got in the way. I would soon regret it.

Jody’s family boasted the highest log fence in Camp. It rose six feet high opposite my own home. If we sat on the wooden stairs at my u-shaped house, we saw only that massive log fence in front of Jody’s place. A dirt road separated the two houses, but nothing travelled on that except cats, bikes, or kids. Once a month, Marcel’s one-ton truck rumbled by, delivering crated groceries shipped up by steamer from Vancouver.

The year was 1956. We were eight, and we loved to scramble up slats in the gate to the top of the first log and then wobble along, stepping from one perch to the next with arms outstretched, like high-wire performers.

Composed of D-logs — whole logs cut flat on one side but still round on the other– the fence loomed in our eyes like the fortress in the movie King Kong. It stood impenetrable, strong. All the kids wanted to climb it, walk it, master it. It called to us in our dreams and at school. That fence tested the outer limits of our physicality. Gollum’s ring held no greater temptation; that fence begged us to walk it, and walk it we did, despite dangers or warnings.

Now, flushed with excitement, Jody stuck a foot in the lower gate hinge and hoisted herself up the gate slats once more. I held my breath and hoped for the best. Could we make it around two sides without falling off? Adrenalin pumped through us; we always started with the side bordering the dirt road, then moved on to the second stretch, which faced a windowless side of Jody’s house. That way, we couldn’t be spotted by Jody’s mother.

She had reached the third log when the sun split the clouds to brighten the way. I craned my neck, walking nervously below, skirting the large sandbox built for the Yaroslavs’ four kids, Jody’s two sisters and a brother. Jody moved slowly as I watched, carefully balancing her small frame. Now a wobble on the fourth log, but she righted herself, pausing until her equilibrium returned. Only ten more steps to go. She made it to five, then six, then wobbled on seven. She paused again. Now eight and nine. Soon she was at ten, ready to make the right turn to head down the second length. We both felt triumphant.

Here I go!” she trumpeted. “Hey! I can see the train yards from here!”

Be careful! Don’t fall off!” As if it was her plan.

Swivelling like a gymnast on a balance beam, Jody faltered a bit but bent forward to compensate. Her arms flailed and I saw her tip slightly sideways. She looked so small that I wished all the more that I stood there instead. My heart lurched, but she righted herself once more and set out along the final leg. One step, two steps, three steps. My neck began to ache from staring up. I felt sweat trickling down my back.

At the sixth log, two things happened. Mrs. Yaroslav opened her front door to let the two dogs out. They were friendly Labs, but they came out barking because Mrs. Boseman from next door chose that precise moment to clatter at the fence gate, coming in for morning coffee. She couldn’t see us for the trees and bushes dotting the yard.

This untimely confluence of events proved too exciting for the two dogs, who bounded toward the gate with barks and howls. Poor Jody turned too far to look over her shoulder.

Jody! Don’t look!” I warned. As if she could prevent herself.

It was too late. Jody lost her balance and fell at the sixth marker. I ran forward to try to catch her, with no luck. She landed mostly on her feet, but the impact proved too much for her tired legs, and one ankle went out from under her. A small cracking sound caused her to shriek in pain. Then her ankle began to swell. She lay on one side, holding her leg above the break and wailing like a banshee. I rushed to her side.

“Jody! Are you okay?” My voice was tearful, joining hers.

The two mothers came running out of the house at the sound of Jody’s shrieks and sobs.

Oh my gosh!” said Jody’s mother. “She’s broken her ankle! You kids and that fence! Honestly!”

“I’ll run to the Dispatch tower!” said Mrs. Boseman, seeing the crooked bend in Jody’s ballooning foot. “You get some ice. She’ll have to be flown out.” And off she dashed.

The Dispatch tower had walkie-talkies and telephones. It was the communication centre for the camp and the outside world. Being “flown out” meant being taken by float plane to Alert Bay, the only hospital site in the area. Woss Camp had a medic, but not for serious injuries.

Luckily, Chuck Yaroslav’s speeder hadn’t yet left the train yards for the bush, due to the lateness of Speeder 121. He arrived home by foot twenty minutes later. Jody’s ankle, now bathed in ice, was lifted with the rest of her and rushed back to the Dispatch Tower by several neighbours. There she was deposited onto a two-passenger speeder and borne three miles south to Woss Lake, where a float plain awaited. Chuck rode along, muttering reassurances. We later heard that the painkillers kicked in about halfway there, and that Jody enjoyed the flight in a foggy haze.  

speeder 121 at Woss Camp
Speeder 121

Back at Camp, kids came running from all directions, keen to hear the gory details of Jody’s fall.

“What happened?” cried Gary and Sammy from down the road.

“She was almost across the second side when she fell! It was the farthest she ever got, but then the dogs came out and scared her! You should have seen it!”

“What happened?” shrieked school pals Mary and Leslie, arriving two minutes later. Then we’d have to explain it all over again. Not that we minded. While sympathetic to Jody’s plight, everyone secretly enjoyed the shivers of shock and horror experienced upon telling and hearing the tale. It was the most exciting thing that had happened in Camp for ages.

Jody returned all smiles the next day, hobbling on crutches, her foot immobilized in a white cast and signed by hospital staff, railway engineers and loggers. She became an instant heroine, all the kids clustering around to hear about the Great Fall and the float plane to the hospital in Alert Bay. Everybody wanted to sign her cast. There wasn’t a kid in Camp who didn’t envy her that plane ride. And, of course, we all got fresh lectures from our folks about camp safety.

As a result of all the fuss, at least three weeks passed before any of us dared to walk the King Kong fence again.

Three whole weeks! That was a feat as amazing as walking the fence itself.

Remembering Woss

For three years in the 1950s, I was the luckiest child alive. From the ages of five to eight, I lived where eagles dared, where huckleberries clung to the hills, where white Mayflowers splashed over the roots of old-growth forests, and ‘bleeding heart’ flowers poked out of trail moss. This was the Pacific Northwest, but for me, life centered around a remote logging camp in the north-central part of Vancouver Island. From 1954 to 1957, my family lived in a vast, old-growth forest which was being logged off without a murmur then. We lived in the remote logging community of Woss Camp, a tiny inland settlement an hour’s “crummy” ride south of Nimpkish Lake.

My mother hated it.

“There’s no doctor! The nearest hospital is in Alert Bay. We’ll have to fly by float plane, bleeding!”

My father loved it. So did we kids; my mother was outnumbered. I can understand now how she felt; she later told me she had anxiety attacks the whole three years we lived there, fearing for the lives of her children. Who could blame her?

The Nimpkish Valley had known loggers since about 1917. Woss sprang up in 1954 for one purpose alone: to act as the centre for Canadian Forest Product’s locomotives, the “lokies” which pulled endless rail cars piled with logs from the virgin forest north to the lake. CANFOR monopolized logging on the Island, harvesting the fir, hemlock, spruce and yellow cedar that covered the vast mountainous terrain. With no road access anywhere, they ran their own dedicated railroad about 32 miles into the heart of the wilderness from their log dump at Englewood in Beaver Cove, a small settlement southeast of Port McNeill on the Queen Charlotte Strait, at the very northern edge of Vancouver Island. Across a short stretch of water lay Alert Bay, an island community containing the hospital so valued by my mother.

Besides massive log loads on flatcars, pulled by Seattle-built Shay locomotives, makeshift “speeders” and crummies ran back and forth from Woss – and other small camps – to Englewood twice a day, carryingshipped-in goods, new arrivals, or weary residents keen to escape to the bright lights of Vancouver. The mimeographed local newsletter – which my father edited – kept track of the comings and goings. Bulletins such as the following regularly appeared:

“The Patton family will be visiting family in Prince George in May.” or “The Holosney family are expecting a new baby soon. Chuck and Rita Holosney will travel to Alert Bay next week to await the delivery.”

After our family left Woss in 1957, Englewood was abandoned as a log dump, though naturally the two events were not related. In fact, I don’t recall being aware of the closure, so excited were we all to resume our lives in Vancouver. However, I do remember Englewood well, as it made a stunning impression on my arriving five-year-old brain. That oil-slicked pier filled with crates and barrels and discarded spar trees; those crazy loggers in the deep water with their peaveys, risking life and limb as they hopped around, unjamming logs in the booms and setting them right. Englewood was a madhouse of activity. Today’s Cirque de Soleil performance can barely compare.

I would give anything to revisit Englewood in its original glory, the way I remember it. I did revisit Woss twice as an adult, but it had changed almost beyond recognition, being now accessible by road. This rather spoiled the dream for me, though the old Woss will always lie like a once-discovered kingdom in my mind. It’s my own Secret Garden, my Narnia, where magical things happen and life excited me to the very marrow. In trying times now, I call up Woss and relive old adventures, meet wonderful friends and walk with them the dusty roads of our former happiness. Woss was the place where kids ran free, reveling in dirt roads, building rafts on ponds, and gathering buckets of huckleberries and salmonberries for pies. It was where we climbed on discarded trucks, rolled on empty oil barrels, and risked death just by crossing the busy railway tracks. We visited the dispatch tower and picked wild strawberries on a hill above the school. The fun was endless, with not a television or a Game Boy in sight.

As I said, I was the luckiest kid alive.



This is not primarily a funny piece – quite the opposite. But I’m adding it here anyway, as I have nowhere else to put it. (mn)


He sits in his four-wheeled walker, facing the facility entrance. His wander-alert bracelet sets off the alarm if he comes closer, and after many breaches, my husband knows this. So he waits just out of range, beyond the lobby carpet.

As I approach the glass doors from outside, I see him, twenty feet back, where the linoleum starts. He’s bouncing up and down a little and waving. His vulnerability pains me. I’m all he has, and we both know it.

There’s no question that I’ll always be there. He is my once-strong partner, my manly trucker, a legend on Vancouver’s docks for solving truck-loading problems for his company. Like the oversized glass panels that had to be mounted on specially-designed racks. He designed those racks, and they’re still used today by local trucking companies.

You should have patented those,” I told him.

Nah…I just did it to help out the guys.” And he had.

Now that inventive mind can no longer think logically or remember what he just said or what he had for lunch half an hour ago.

How can he bear it?

How can I?

The automatic doors swing open for me and I feel guilty; he can’t understand why he cannot come and go as I do. But he endures it, as he endures all else in this place. He is a marvel of adaptation, sunny and cheerful, never blaming me for putting him here.

Why isn’t he angry at this sudden turn of fate? How can he remain so forbearing with me and others? Why doesn’t he resent being so frail? He’s not completely befuddled, so why is he not depressed? My theory is that he feels safe here. And he doesn’t think about himself much. It’s a wonderful quality.

The friendly, young receptionist smiles as I pass by her desk by the entrance door. I can see that she has something to tell me.

He told me ‘a friend’ was coming,” she chuckles. It’s a small joke, unwanted, perhaps, but bearable. He’s never referred to me as “a friend” before.

It’s alright, I tell myself. But it hurts a little. After 45 years together, it hurts.

It’s another measure of how I’m losing him.

I’m 75 years old!” he tells people proudly.

Yes, you are. And you’re frail, too. These are my thoughts.

Right now, I hurry forward, in case impatience makes him cross the alarm barrier. He’s already standing, bobbing up and down with arms outstretched. I wrap my arms around him and we hold each other tight for a long moment, whispering sweet nothings, reassuring one another and ourselves. Only twenty-four hours have passed.

After disarming the wander-alert, I call him forward and we exit together. He pushes the walker while waving to the receptionist. He’s out of ‘San Quentin’ at last, as he calls it, and for the next two hours, we’ll drive around, laughing and talking nonsense, stopping off at Tim Horton’s for a hot chocolate in the car. Best of all, for him, will be smoking two or three cigarettes in the motorized warmth. It’s a complete luxury for him, as the “home” allows only ten per day, taken outside in the freezing cold. The car is much better; it has become his refuge, a cozy place where he can smoke at will, travel the city streets and be with me. It has become our gypsy caravan.

I just love driving around like this!” he often exclaims. “I could do it all afternoon.”

And if it weren’t for my sciatica, so could I.

Lottery Ticket Sales – Do It Better!

I was standing at the Customer Service counter in a large grocery store watching a slope-shouldered man argue with the sole clerk about the ‘free pick’ he felt he was owed. The clerk was trying to be patient, but the conversation was bogging down.

“No, you don’t get a free pick with this one,” she said, holding up a recent purchase. “Your free pick came with this one.” She fanned out a sheaf of older paper tickets and pointed at a middle one.

All I wanted was a shopping basket with wheels, so I interrupted.

“This looks as if it’ll take awhile,” I smiled. “Can I just get a rolling cart?”

The young clerk obliged, and I went on my merry way.

This lottery ticket holdup has happened too often  for me to put up with it. Counters full of the damned things roost beside most cash registers in mini-marts, convenience stores, malls, supermarkets and gas stations. The glass-covered chits line up like cards in a game of Solitaire, only more colourful. Neon hues encourage customers who once pondered choices at the candy counter to drool over lottery tickets in same way.  Sadly, it’s usually when I have one item to buy and I’m late for an appointment. They start with the hemming and hawing until I could scream.

“Let’s see,” I almost hear them think. “There’s the 6/49, the Quik-Pick, the Super Loto, and the Lotto Max, Which one shall I choose?”

“Just pick any of them!” I feel like shouting.

There must be a better way. Could venues not set up special lottery kiosks so that us non-buyers can zip through the checkout process? Must we wait for ten minutes while some woman in sweats and Crocs mulls over which colour 6/49 she wants and then – after 5 full minutes – opts for something else entirely?

Could stores not sell tickets through machines? Spit them out like gumballs, I say. Just don’t keep the rest of us waiting.