Archive for January, 2024

Skiing at the Golf Course

Wednesday, January 17th, 2024

Skiing at The Golf Course

Skiing in Nelson has a surprisingly long history. I am not totally aware of all of it but I do know large parts of it especially the years when our hill was located above the golf course partly up the slope of Morning Mountain. Those were in the 1950’s – the years I started to ski. My first skis were a Christmas gift in about 1953. I dug them out a few years ago and was surprised they were still serviceable. Small and skinny but usable. Of course skiing is as much about looking hip and up to date with the latest and most expensive gear as it is how fast you can get down. So I just couldn’t use the old beat up boards. They were so old that you had to paint a base on them and apply wax. No steel edges and the harnesses were of the bear trap variety. The boots were old rubber gum boots.

The next year brought safety harnesses that snapped your foot right down and leather boots that did not wander but were hard and clunky to walk in. Indeed.

My uphill friends were among the first kids to use the new hill: Tom Ramsay, Gary Kilpatrick, Gary Higgs and Clare Palmer were in the first bunch. We would get up early and ski to the hill. Before it opened we were so ready to go that we sometimes skid up to the Silver King Mine so we could ski down the winding and super narrow road. We stopped for lunch and to feed the Camp Robbers half way up. One time we went into the cook house and I found a big jar of frozen peanut butter on a shelf above the stove. I tried to edge it down but misjudged and it fell on the stove top. The jar did not break but the stove top did

the stove I wiggled it to the edge and it fell on the stove. I cringed thinking of the mess it would make when it broke. It did not break or crack, the stove lid did.

We cleared out after that and braved the road down. The early skis were not so easy to turn so we simply crashed into most of the corners as we scooted down the hill. The best skiing was in the farm fields of Rosemont. In those years that’s largely what Rosemont was along with frequent patches of forest.

The ski hill was small but very interesting for young learners. The lift was a rope strung around the rim of a model A which sat on blocks at the bottom of the hill. The rope ran up to another rim in a tree some 500 m up the hill. From the tree, there was a narrow track that led to the main hill which featured a steep downhill pitch that climbed up to a flat where the Model A was situated. If you were fast enough on the downhill, you breezed up to the flat and right into the lineup

Since my pals and I were often the first skiers to arrive we sometimes had the hill to ourselves early in the day. We would ski down to a barn where the gas was stored, fill up the Model A then fire it up.

Next came a wild ride to the top. It was sometimes a more exciting ski up the rope than it was down the hill. If Gary Kilpatrick was running the Model A it was all one could do to hang on because he floored it. Eventually John Fink got hung up on the tree rim and we had a hard time getting him loose. That pretty well ended our manning the tow.

We started exploring around the golf course buildings poking our noses into places that were off limits. Eventually we found the beer.

If you reached into a crack in the building door you could feel open cases of beer. You couldn’t drag anything out or grab bottles but you could get a tenuous finger grip on the tops of some bottles. So we fished a few out from time to time and drank them in the woods on the way home. Gary Higgs drank a bunch one time and started doing flips off stumps. He was celebrating with vigor but no harm was done except perhaps to a few thirsty golfers in the summer

Skiing in Nelson has always been a quest for more reliable snow. It started in the Fairview Gravel Pit operated by my grandfather and great grandfather. This was OK for a few years but the club moved to the golf course and the lower slopes of Morning Mountain next. This was great fun but could not last as the weather became more unstable. By the late 1950s, it started to rain in the winter. I was shocked but it was by n means a common occurrence happening perhaps once or twice a year. But it was enough to spook the ski club into seeking higher ground. We started clearing Silver King, a densely forested slope off Ymir road. The forest was thicker than hair on a dog’s back and there was little merchantable timber in the mix. Most of the wood was stacked and burned.

I remember the first day we started. How discouraging it was to work in the thick cover of small hemlocks and Douglas fir with lodge pole pine. It seemed an impossible task but the stalwart skiers of Nelson soldiered on. Danny and Dee McKay, Fred and Edna Whitely, Walt and Naida Palmer, Bill Murphy, Bill and Buddy Ramsay and their kids. What seemed impossible happened in a couple of years there was a cleared hill and a T Bar.

I remember hauling up a part for the lift . It was a large square part that I hung around my neck. I walked up one of the old California Mine Roads and dropped the part at the top of the lift. To walk or ski down was the next question? It was getting dark and a long haul back down the road. I knew I would not be able to maintain control on the very steep and unpacked hill but went down anyway. The first idiot to schuss the Silver King. I fell about a third of the way down. It was a real tumble but no damage was done.

I skied at Silver King a fair bit more but we moved to California in 1958 there was excellent skiing there at places like Squaw Valley, Heavenly Valley and Mount Rose. I was not to ski in Nelson again until Whitewater came on. It was a crown land project and Al Raine (Provincial ski co-coordinator), myself (biologist) and Ross Lake (Nelson Ski Club) went up to finalize the Crown Agreement.

Finally Nelson had an alpine hill with enough elevation to stay above the mild, rainy days that now plague all the ski hills on this warming planet.

 

,,

 

Chester

Wednesday, January 17th, 2024

CHESTER

As I read thru Alex Kershaw’s Jack London – a Life it occurs to me that two of London’s most popular and acclaimed stories were about dogs. I was also a strong fan of dog stories and was almost always reading a Jack O Brien story like Silver Chief Dog of the North or something by James Oliver Curwood . Then I reasoned why read about them? We had a dog that was every bit as colourful and interesting as any dog of story: Chester was a big, brawling Chesapeake Bay Retriever that was our beloved family dog for about 15 years. We got him as a pup from the McQuarrie family who lived on the North Shore of Nelson near Gordon and Ramona Burn’s summer house off what is now Johnstone Road.

Little did we know that this innocent puppy would bring a rollicking life of good times and high adventure that had to be lived to be believed? Even now, I still marvel at the memories.

Chester became a large curly fellow who lived life to the fullest no matter where we lived. Life with Chess was one of constant surprise. One of the first was the realization that he hated cats. He didn’t just chase them, he killed them. When we lived on Kootenay Street, the old street car barns were next door. Feral cats hung out there and they occasionally wandered through our backyard. Chess was in vigilante mode and attacked when a cat showed. One day a smallish cat showed up and Chess chased him up small maple. As the cat paused to gloat, he forgot his tail was hanging down. Chess jumped up and grabbed it. Game over.

Chester also felt obliged to fight any dog he considered a challenge, so we had some wild brawls.

Chess.jpg

Chess was serious about these fights and some lasted a long time. A neighbour across the lake (Barbara Lang) had a large boxer who also didn’t mind a scrap. They tangled near Gram’s flower bed until they were absolutely spent. Beau (a white dog) was pink with spilled blood. I think Chess got the worst of it. He usually won the first parts of brawls from surprise. H e would charge his opponent bowling them over then go to work but when dogs survived the first hit, Chess could be in for a battle. In the end of this one Beau had Chess by the throat and would not let go. But Beau was holding on to the loose fur of Chester’s ruff doing no harm. Dad finally took the hose to the boneheads before they ran off to lick their wounds.

Chess also liked to eat and required a lot of food. Not long after we had Chess, a new Safeway store opened in Fairview. To mark the occasion, they had a dog food eating contest. Tommy took Chess to the contest that was no contest. They opened the cans of meat above the bowels and were going to spoon out the content. Chester’s meat came out in a one piece blob the shape of the can. Before it landed in the bowel, Chess has snapped it out of the air and swallowed it. He won hands down. Tommy was so proud.

beachboys.jpg

Chess at the beach with Tom and Ross and Rod McKay

Chesapeake’s are one of the best water dogs and Chester was true to form. He was always in or around the water whether there was someone to play with or not. He would fetch his own sticks and rocks and dive for bottles or cans from the boathouse. The dog was interested in everything to do with water. He would swim across the lake and follow us to school even if Mom locked him in the house for an hour or so. When we lived at Kootenay Street he often followed us to church On one occasion on a snowy day around Christmas we just settled our seats near the front of the church when there was a ruckus back by the door I felt a stab of panic. Could it be? He was not around when we left in a second or two there he was, Racing down the aisle. Covered with an inch of wet now. Deliriously happy to find his family. He climbed over everyone in the row shaking and wagging his tail as he passed and licking the faces of people he knew. When he reached us he would sit quietly and pretend to be listening to the sermon until the service ended, then he would charge outside and look for a dog to fight.

Another winter pastime was hockey. He would play with us all day and never seem to tire. On one occasion, he noticed a small flock of mallards keeping a patch of water open by swimming around and around so it would not freeze

Chess charged and launched himself after the ducks. He swam around chasing them for a long time. We thought he might freeze. But he climbed and shook like it was a summer day then resumed chasing the puck as he turned white with frost and his feet bled on the ice.

When I took him fishing he would sit by the rod tip waiting for a bite then launch himself into the water to grab the fish which was usually swimming to freedom by then, Chess would swim in circles looking for it for the longest time. I should have left him home but didn’t have the

Heart for it besides he would eventually show up anyway chesschamp.JPG

Tommy left ad Chess at Safeway openingin t 195? when Chess won a dog food eating cpntest

Chess was a dog with low impulse control. He was also a glutton.

In the spring I would take him walking along the west part of the beach where there were salt licks. We would get spring water Gram liked for her tea then cut up to the orchard and circle back home. The snow was melting and we found a dead coyote by the spring. I had a quick look and carried on. The carcass was in a state of decomposition. Indeed. I was almost home when I noticed Chess wasn’t with me. I

circled back and sure enough he had devoured the coyote maggots and all!

In summers we often had supper on the porch and food would sometimes sit for awhile unattended. This was too much for Chess. He grabbed both a turkey and a ham and ran for cover. Both times dad hacked him pretty good with a hockey stick but it hardly fazed him. Food was never left to sit again.

Another revelation was his hatred of squirrels. They seemed to know and relish in taunting him. There was a giant fir beside our driveway and a little red squirrel would dash out on the trunk and scold Chester to the edge of madness. He never got within reach of Chester but came pretty close.

In 1958 it was off to California and a new set of adventures. First we lived in Sunnyvale where Chester indulged himself with neighbourhood females. A poodle next door was the first victim so Chess-a-poos added diversity to the local fauna. He could not be contained there either even by a high fence. I watched him leap it one time. He ran at it and leaped high getting his front feet a bit over it. Then he pulled himself up and over.

Next stop was Los Altos where there was a ravine with a seasonal creek and some large oak trees with squirrels! Large California Grey Squirrels who delighted in taunting Chester. They knew where he rested beside a sliding glass door looking over the back yard. The squirrels would sneak right up to the door and chatter at the dog that was usually not asleep. He was waiting for his chance.

One day I left the door open and Chess got his chance. The pair of squirrel’s had a last taunt then headed for the oaks. Chester roared like a Lion but could not do any damage. One squirrel ran out on a limb above Chess lifted his leg then pissed on the enraged dog. I have never seen an animal go as Crazy. The squirrel panicked and ran further out. Chess leaped onto the branch ran right behind the rodent and almost caught him. The squirrel jumped on to the nearby fence and kept going. Chess was hot on his tail. but could not quite connect. One last lunge and the dog fell off the two by four fence top landing on his tail and breaking it.

That was more or less the end of the adventure. He got in one more battle with a big chow. He ran right into the dog’s garage where a lady was hanging clothes on one those collapsible wooden holders. The lady and the rack got knocked over and the chow got roughed up but it was a good scrap and the chow did well. I guess that’s when I realized that Chess was not indestructible. We went back to Nelson after that and he took up his old place sleeping by the fridge with one eye opened in case someone tossed him a wiener. Or he would go for walks with us but he wasn’t quite up to it. He would get too far then cry out in pain. We had to pack him back to the ranch. By then he was a real heavy weight and no one could carry him safely. It wasn’t long then,

good bye old partner I hope you are by a good lake in squirrel country where they are not too quick. I think of you often and miss every moment we were together. Sometimes I look for your tracks on the beach. They are never there anymore.

CHESTER

As I read thru Alex Kershaw’s Jack London – a Life it occurs to me that two of London’s most popular and acclaimed stories were about dogs. I was also a strong fan of dog stories and was almost always reading a Jack O Brien story like Silver Chief Dog of the North or something by James Oliver Curwood . Then I reasoned why read about them? We had a dog that was every bit as colourful and interesting as any dog of story: Chester was a big, brawling Chesapeake Bay Retriever that was our beloved family dog for about 15 years. We got him as a pup from the McQuarrie family who lived on the North Shore of Nelson near Gordon and Ramona Burn’s summer house off what is now Johnstone Road.

Little did we know that this innocent puppy would bring a rollicking life of good times and high adventure that had to be lived to be believed? Even now, I still marvel at the memories.

Chester became a large curly fellow who lived life to the fullest no matter where we lived. Life with Chess was one of constant surprise. One of the first was the realization that he hated cats. He didn’t just chase them, he killed them. When we lived on Kootenay Street, the old street car barns were next door. Feral cats hung out there and they occasionally wandered through our backyard. Chess was in vigilante mode and attacked when a cat showed. One day a smallish cat showed up and Chess chased him up small maple. As the cat paused to gloat, he forgot his tail was hanging down. Chess jumped up and grabbed it. Game over.

Chester also felt obliged to fight any dog he considered a challenge, so we had some wild brawls.

Chess.jpg

Chess was serious about these fights and some lasted a long time. A neighbour across the lake (Barbara Lang) had a large boxer who also didn’t mind a scrap. They tangled near Gram’s flower bed until they were absolutely spent. Beau (a white dog) was pink with spilled blood. I think Chess got the worst of it. He usually won the first parts of brawls from surprise. H e would charge his opponent bowling them over then go to work but when dogs survived the first hit, Chess could be in for a battle. In the end of this one Beau had Chess by the throat and would not let go. But Beau was holding on to the loose fur of Chester’s ruff doing no harm. Dad finally took the hose to the boneheads before they ran off to lick their wounds.

Chess also liked to eat and required a lot of food. Not long after we had Chess, a new Safeway store opened in Fairview. To mark the occasion, they had a dog food eating contest. Tommy took Chess to the contest that was no contest. They opened the cans of meat above the bowels and were going to spoon out the content. Chester’s meat came out in a one piece blob the shape of the can. Before it landed in the bowel, Chess has snapped it out of the air and swallowed it. He won hands down. Tommy was so proud.

beachboys.jpg

Chess at the beach with Tom and Ross and Rod McKay

Chesapeake’s are one of the best water dogs and Chester was true to form. He was always in or around the water whether there was someone to play with or not. He would fetch his own sticks and rocks and dive for bottles or cans from the boathouse. The dog was interested in everything to do with water. He would swim across the lake and follow us to school even if Mom locked him in the house for an hour or so. When we lived at Kootenay Street he often followed us to church On one occasion on a snowy day around Christmas we just settled our seats near the front of the church when there was a ruckus back by the door I felt a stab of panic. Could it be? He was not around when we left in a second or two there he was, Racing down the aisle. Covered with an inch of wet now. Deliriously happy to find his family. He climbed over everyone in the row shaking and wagging his tail as he passed and licking the faces of people he knew. When he reached us he would sit quietly and pretend to be listening to the sermon until the service ended, then he would charge outside and look for a dog to fight.

Another winter pastime was hockey. He would play with us all day and never seem to tire. On one occasion, he noticed a small flock of mallards keeping a patch of water open by swimming around and around so it would not freeze

Chess charged and launched himself after the ducks. He swam around chasing them for a long time. We thought he might freeze. But he climbed and shook like it was a summer day then resumed chasing the puck as he turned white with frost and his feet bled on the ice.

When I took him fishing he would sit by the rod tip waiting for a bite then launch himself into the water to grab the fish which was usually swimming to freedom by then, Chess would swim in circles looking for it for the longest time. I should have left him home but didn’t have the

Heart for it besides he would eventually show up anyway chesschamp.JPG

Tommy left ad Chess at Safeway openingin t 195? when Chess won a dog food eating cpntest

Chess was a dog with low impulse control. He was also a glutton.

In the spring I would take him walking along the west part of the beach where there were salt licks. We would get spring water Gram liked for her tea then cut up to the orchard and circle back home. The snow was melting and we found a dead coyote by the spring. I had a quick look and carried on. The carcass was in a state of decomposition. Indeed. I was almost home when I noticed Chess wasn’t with me. I

circled back and sure enough he had devoured the coyote maggots and all!

In summers we often had supper on the porch and food would sometimes sit for awhile unattended. This was too much for Chess. He grabbed both a turkey and a ham and ran for cover. Both times dad hacked him pretty good with a hockey stick but it hardly fazed him. Food was never left to sit again.

Another revelation was his hatred of squirrels. They seemed to know and relish in taunting him. There was a giant fir beside our driveway and a little red squirrel would dash out on the trunk and scold Chester to the edge of madness. He never got within reach of Chester but came pretty close.

In 1958 it was off to California and a new set of adventures. First we lived in Sunnyvale where Chester indulged himself with neighbourhood females. A poodle next door was the first victim so Chess-a-poos added diversity to the local fauna. He could not be contained there either even by a high fence. I watched him leap it one time. He ran at it and leaped high getting his front feet a bit over it. Then he pulled himself up and over.

Next stop was Los Altos where there was a ravine with a seasonal creek and some large oak trees with squirrels! Large California Grey Squirrels who delighted in taunting Chester. They knew where he rested beside a sliding glass door looking over the back yard. The squirrels would sneak right up to the door and chatter at the dog that was usually not asleep. He was waiting for his chance.

One day I left the door open and Chess got his chance. The pair of squirrel’s had a last taunt then headed for the oaks. Chester roared like a Lion but could not do any damage. One squirrel ran out on a limb above Chess lifted his leg then pissed on the enraged dog. I have never seen an animal go as Crazy. The squirrel panicked and ran further out. Chess leaped onto the branch ran right behind the rodent and almost caught him. The squirrel jumped on to the nearby fence and kept going. Chess was hot on his tail. but could not quite connect. One last lunge and the dog fell off the two by four fence top landing on his tail and breaking it.

That was more or less the end of the adventure. He got in one more battle with a big chow. He ran right into the dog’s garage where a lady was hanging clothes on one those collapsible wooden holders. The lady and the rack got knocked over and the chow got roughed up but it was a good scrap and the chow did well. I guess that’s when I realized that Chess was not indestructible. We went back to Nelson after that and he took up his old place sleeping by the fridge with one eye opened in case someone tossed him a wiener. Or he would go for walks with us but he wasn’t quite up to it. He would get too far then cry out in pain. We had to pack him back to the ranch. By then he was a real heavy weight and no one could carry him safely. It wasn’t long then,

good bye old partner I hope you are by a good lake in squirrel country where they are not too quick. I think of you often and miss every moment we were together. Sometimes I look for your tracks on the beach. They are never there anymore.

CHESTER

As I read thru Alex Kershaw’s Jack London – a Life it occurs to me that two of London’s most popular and acclaimed stories were about dogs. I was also a strong fan of dog stories and was almost always reading a Jack O Brien story like Silver Chief Dog of the North or something by James Oliver Curwood . Then I reasoned why read about them? We had a dog that was every bit as colourful and interesting as any dog of story: Chester was a big, brawling Chesapeake Bay Retriever that was our beloved family dog for about 15 years. We got him as a pup from the McQuarrie family who lived on the North Shore of Nelson near Gordon and Ramona Burn’s summer house off what is now Johnstone Road.

Little did we know that this innocent puppy would bring a rollicking life of good times and high adventure that had to be lived to be believed? Even now, I still marvel at the memories.

Chester became a large curly fellow who lived life to the fullest no matter where we lived. Life with Chess was one of constant surprise. One of the first was the realization that he hated cats. He didn’t just chase them, he killed them. When we lived on Kootenay Street, the old street car barns were next door. Feral cats hung out there and they occasionally wandered through our backyard. Chess was in vigilante mode and attacked when a cat showed. One day a smallish cat showed up and Chess chased him up small maple. As the cat paused to gloat, he forgot his tail was hanging down. Chess jumped up and grabbed it. Game over.

Chester also felt obliged to fight any dog he considered a challenge, so we had some wild brawls.

Chess.jpg

Chess was serious about these fights and some lasted a long time. A neighbour across the lake (Barbara Lang) had a large boxer who also didn’t mind a scrap. They tangled near Gram’s flower bed until they were absolutely spent. Beau (a white dog) was pink with spilled blood. I think Chess got the worst of it. He usually won the first parts of brawls from surprise. H e would charge his opponent bowling them over then go to work but when dogs survived the first hit, Chess could be in for a battle. In the end of this one Beau had Chess by the throat and would not let go. But Beau was holding on to the loose fur of Chester’s ruff doing no harm. Dad finally took the hose to the boneheads before they ran off to lick their wounds.

Chess also liked to eat and required a lot of food. Not long after we had Chess, a new Safeway store opened in Fairview. To mark the occasion, they had a dog food eating contest. Tommy took Chess to the contest that was no contest. They opened the cans of meat above the bowels and were going to spoon out the content. Chester’s meat came out in a one piece blob the shape of the can. Before it landed in the bowel, Chess has snapped it out of the air and swallowed it. He won hands down. Tommy was so proud.

beachboys.jpg

Chess at the beach with Tom and Ross and Rod McKay

Chesapeake’s are one of the best water dogs and Chester was true to form. He was always in or around the water whether there was someone to play with or not. He would fetch his own sticks and rocks and dive for bottles or cans from the boathouse. The dog was interested in everything to do with water. He would swim across the lake and follow us to school even if Mom locked him in the house for an hour or so. When we lived at Kootenay Street he often followed us to church On one occasion on a snowy day around Christmas we just settled our seats near the front of the church when there was a ruckus back by the door I felt a stab of panic. Could it be? He was not around when we left in a second or two there he was, Racing down the aisle. Covered with an inch of wet now. Deliriously happy to find his family. He climbed over everyone in the row shaking and wagging his tail as he passed and licking the faces of people he knew. When he reached us he would sit quietly and pretend to be listening to the sermon until the service ended, then he would charge outside and look for a dog to fight.

Another winter pastime was hockey. He would play with us all day and never seem to tire. On one occasion, he noticed a small flock of mallards keeping a patch of water open by swimming around and around so it would not freeze

Chess charged and launched himself after the ducks. He swam around chasing them for a long time. We thought he might freeze. But he climbed and shook like it was a summer day then resumed chasing the puck as he turned white with frost and his feet bled on the ice.

When I took him fishing he would sit by the rod tip waiting for a bite then launch himself into the water to grab the fish which was usually swimming to freedom by then, Chess would swim in circles looking for it for the longest time. I should have left him home but didn’t have the

Heart for it besides he would eventually show up anyway chesschamp.JPG

Tommy left ad Chess at Safeway openingin t 195? when Chess won a dog food eating cpntest

Chess was a dog with low impulse control. He was also a glutton.

In the spring I would take him walking along the west part of the beach where there were salt licks. We would get spring water Gram liked for her tea then cut up to the orchard and circle back home. The snow was melting and we found a dead coyote by the spring. I had a quick look and carried on. The carcass was in a state of decomposition. Indeed. I was almost home when I noticed Chess wasn’t with me. I

circled back and sure enough he had devoured the coyote maggots and all!

In summers we often had supper on the porch and food would sometimes sit for awhile unattended. This was too much for Chess. He grabbed both a turkey and a ham and ran for cover. Both times dad hacked him pretty good with a hockey stick but it hardly fazed him. Food was never left to sit again.

Another revelation was his hatred of squirrels. They seemed to know and relish in taunting him. There was a giant fir beside our driveway and a little red squirrel would dash out on the trunk and scold Chester to the edge of madness. He never got within reach of Chester but came pretty close.

In 1958 it was off to California and a new set of adventures. First we lived in Sunnyvale where Chester indulged himself with neighbourhood females. A poodle next door was the first victim so Chess-a-poos added diversity to the local fauna. He could not be contained there either even by a high fence. I watched him leap it one time. He ran at it and leaped high getting his front feet a bit over it. Then he pulled himself up and over.

Next stop was Los Altos where there was a ravine with a seasonal creek and some large oak trees with squirrels! Large California Grey Squirrels who delighted in taunting Chester. They knew where he rested beside a sliding glass door looking over the back yard. The squirrels would sneak right up to the door and chatter at the dog that was usually not asleep. He was waiting for his chance.

One day I left the door open and Chess got his chance. The pair of squirrel’s had a last taunt then headed for the oaks. Chester roared like a Lion but could not do any damage. One squirrel ran out on a limb above Chess lifted his leg then pissed on the enraged dog. I have never seen an animal go as Crazy. The squirrel panicked and ran further out. Chess leaped onto the branch ran right behind the rodent and almost caught him. The squirrel jumped on to the nearby fence and kept going. Chess was hot on his tail. but could not quite connect. One last lunge and the dog fell off the two by four fence top landing on his tail and breaking it.

That was more or less the end of the adventure. He got in one more battle with a big chow. He ran right into the dog’s garage where a lady was hanging clothes on one those collapsible wooden holders. The lady and the rack got knocked over and the chow got roughed up but it was a good scrap and the chow did well. I guess that’s when I realized that Chess was not indestructible. We went back to Nelson after that and he took up his old place sleeping by the fridge with one eye opened in case someone tossed him a wiener. Or he would go for walks with us but he wasn’t quite up to it. He would get too far then cry out in pain. We had to pack him back to the ranch. By then he was a real heavy weight and no one could carry him safely. It wasn’t long then,

good bye old partner I hope you are by a good lake in squirrel country where they are not too quick. I think of you often and miss every moment we were together. Sometimes I look for your tracks on the beach. They are never there anymore.

 

GRINGO TRAIL

Tuesday, January 16th, 2024

Gringo Trail

About the time winter starts to rear its head on the South Coast of BC, is when I start to yearn for the sun and some warmth and think about heading south on the Gringo Trail.

It starts slowly with a few vehicles leaking out of Vancouver and Vancouver Island spots like Hornby and Denman Islands. Then gradually picks up to the point where you think you may be part of a migration to the light. You start to see more campers, vans and old school busses filled with happy faces.

You are approaching Everett now almost in the shadow of Seattle. Seattle is one of the large Cascadian cities that seem to have retained some of its hippie flavor. I am not completely sure about this. It is more of a feeling than something you can weigh and measure. Vancouver once had a thriving counter community in Kitsalano but it has since been gentrified. Of the once strong BC Hippie Community there is little left. Nelson and the Slocan Valley are trying to hang on but the new people with money are closing in tearing down lovely older Nelson homes, putting in boxes and apartments and clogging the streets with cars.

In the southward stream, there will likely be some denizens of the Comet Tavern up on Pike Street and some from Pike Place Market Area.

South of Seattle, there are a number of small to medium sized towns that are much the same. They are usually set back from the I-5 and surrounded by used car lots, malls and gas stations with a few Big Box stores. Some of the downtowns are interesting. Think of Linden, WA but there isn’t much to them. Not enough to delay gringos hunting for the sun.

Portland is the next big town. My sister and her husband live out in Hillsboro, a suburb to the west that I always have trouble finding in a maze of freeways – no hippies here just Mexican families seeking the good life. But there are some interesting towns in the area. Some of my Bay Area friends from the old days spent summers in Seaside when it was an endless party. Eugene is another spot that attracts counter culture folk. People from the East Shore of Kootenay Lake go down for Rainbow Family gatherings. There are other towns where the Granola Gang holds sway but they are off the Trail. Like Hood River and Fairview.

The Trail follows the beautiful Willamette Valley south through some very productive land. I always wonder if some coastal BC birds that disappear for the worst parts of winter when the ground is frozen and snow covered, sneak down there until things warm up a bit. But I have seen robins in Nelson where there is frozen ground and snow for five months. The birds huddle together in a bushy tree and somehow tough it out. There is no mild valley for them to escape to

The Trail still follows Highway I-5 which is not the most interesting. Indeed. But as you approach Southern Oregon, there is another highway branching off at Grants Pass. In fact, there are several other routes you can follow to cut over to the coast. Highway 199 is the one I usually take. The Americans have classified it as a dangerous highway but the only thing I have experienced is someone yelling at me and delivering the one finger salute. I could not figure out why until I turned on the radio and heard a raging right wing radio broadcaster who told his lisisteners that Canada was a pinko country with a gay Prime Minister. Evidently Canada had not joined the fight against Iraq or made enough menacing noise about “weapons of mass destruction” I later learned that right wing radio ranters were quite common in the US and were not always held to the truth. I had always thought a Canadian license plate or flag was a kind of protection. Obviously not always.

Highway 199 comes out to the coast at Crescent City, CA. A not bad town and the start of a spectacular stretch of coast that goes on for most of California. This stretch is one I know well because I was a student at Humboldt State University from 1964 to 1968 and lived along this coast for many years from the Oregon Border to San Diego including Arcata, the home of Humboldt State. Life for students was very different then. Rent was minimal because I always lived with four or five roommates and we rented old houses or inexpensive student apartments. Tuition was around fifty dollars per semester and beer was about three bucks a dozen. I always had a job and a bank account. The football coach started a janitorial service so his players could have work. Few of them took the jobs but I and my roommates were happy to work them. I also worked for Coast Oyster Company and The Keg, a little hole in the wall pub but the best one I have ever been associated with. Every night was a feast of excitement and memorable adventure.

My first night at Humboldt was a good example. The party was rolling along pretty good when the staff pulled the curtains and locked the doors at 2 AM the legal closing time. We howled on. The Keg was owned by a character we called Junior. Sometime after three he snuck into a back room and stuffed a large hammer down his pants. “The girls will love this “he explained. Not long after he was cheek to cheek with a very young girl when a scream pierced the smoke-filled air and Junior ducked out the back door. The party was over.

There was a small pool table at The Keg. It was more trouble than it was worth. A small group of hippies often played there nursing their beer and not bothering anyone. Once in awhile they would play jukebox songs like Societies Child by Janis Ian. One night a bunch of Green Berets came sailing in and demanded the hippies give up the table.” We will be done in a few minutes” they said. The Green Berets were large and not in the best of moods, the Hipsters were skinny and underfed. “Your shrubs give up this table or get your clocks cleaned.” The big boys moved in and the battle was on. The Hippies whipped the big lads with ease. They were lightening fast and the Muscle Heads were way over confident.

Just another night at The Keg. I heard it has been sold and replaced by a fancy restaurant with table cloths, flowers and wine. It has been said that Junior has moved to Bellingham.

Not far from The Keg was an apartment building where my roommates and I lived. It overlooked the parking area of a hamburger stand. One afternoon Tom Spencer, our roommate got in line for some food. One us called down to tell the girl “There is a robber in your line up”. We carefully described Spencer and warned her to be careful because “he has been known to be dangerous. “I see him, I see him” she yelled”. Soon after a squad of Gestapo pulled in and logged Spencer into the Crowbar Hotel. We congratulated ourselves but before long the cops were back for me. Spencer had talked himself out of trouble and shifted the blame to us. I had an outstanding traffic warrant so I spent the night in jail and had to take a traffic safety course. Another roommate just dodged the bullet because he had scrapped with the Sherriff about a month before. Evidently the sheriff had forgotten and Spencer had the last laugh.

After Arcata and Eureka, Highway 101 becomes a very scenic by way. Spectacular groves of redwoods line the road. They surely are wonders of the world­ ­- the best of them is in the Avenue of the Giants. The redwoods exist in quite a narrow zone in southern Oregon and coastal California down to the southern part of Big Sur. They stick to the fog zone to dodge the heat and dryness of inland regions. There are some great coastal beaches and fern lined ravines where Roosevelt Elk are seen.

We are now nearing the Napa -Sonoma wine country. This is another beautiful area where the great writer Jack London once lived. I find it somewhat odd that he wrote about the harsh and deadly qualities of the Yukon when he lived in such a calm bucolic area. London was dogged by accusations of socialism which he freely admitted. He also drank his share of spirits which dragged him down eventually. I wonder if drinking also inspired him when he was at his best. Imagine the great story teller sitting by the fire sipping a drink and thinking of the northern trails and wolves howling at the shimmering northern lights

Then it’s across the Golden Gate to the towers of The City. Californians have only one city – San Francisco. No Californian will ever call Los Angeles, San Diego or some other pretender “The City”. San Francisco is the main city of California and the main city of the counter culture and many other movements. It is a beautiful city beyond interesting. However, when I last went out to Height Ashbury you couldn’t help feel it was somehow not real but staged by people who knew how to dress it up as the heart of Hippie Land. When I lived down The Peninsula in Sunnyvale, my high school friends and I would don suits and go up to strip clubs in The City. We would sometimes cross Broadway to the upper reaches of Grant Avenue to hear Beatniks beat their bongos and read poetry. We could have been seeing Kerouac and Ginsburg for all I knew. This is where it all started, where the Beatniks spawned the Flower Children. The terms Beatnik and Hippie were coined by Herb Caen who chronicled life in the city for more than sixty years. His column was termed a love letter to the city he called Baghdad by the Bay.

Just down the Peninsula is San Mateo. I was born there in St. Matthews Hospital in 1942. My Mom and I lived with Nana and Pappy Flynn and Nana’s sister Auntie Sanderson. Dad was away in the Canadian Army. Until he returned from the war, we would live in a wealthy district of San Mateo called Bay Wood. The house was located at 373 Parrot Drive and it was a beauty. “Pure redwood lumber” Pappy would say. Tom Flynn had made lots of money in the Nevada mines and was the President of The San Francisco Stock Exchange then. I sometimes rode in with him on the train. The house is still there as fine as ever. It is probably owned by a dot com millionaire now because it is in one of the most expensive neighbor hoods on earth. Pappy would be disgusted. He was very poor in his youth and remained frugal all his days.

After experiencing Sunnyvale and American Graffiti days where we cruised Fourth Street in San Jose just the way it was done in Graffiti, I signed on to Foothill College for a couple of years and worked at Bill Steffen’s Chevron, a garage out on Stevens Creek Boulevard. Foothill was one of the first community colleges. The Americans called them Junior Colleges and most students took advantage of them to get though the general education requirements: courses like English, Math and Social Sciences. You could graduate with an Associate Arts degree if you had enough credits. My folks were living in Los Altos then but myself and a few pals were living in an old house in Monte Vista we called the Sugar Shack. That was near the peak of the sixties. Watching our old TV one day we saw two of our roommates marching at Berkeley. Maggie had shaved herself bald and Mike was naked except for a Superman cape.

Bill Steffen’s was a neighbood gas station and we also did small repairs. We had a good mechanic but he was almost never sober. He kept a Mickey of WolfSchmits Vodka in his back pocket which he swigged from every few minutes. He would then take a swig of Squirt (a popular soft drink in the States) and mix it in his mouth. I tried it and was not quite up to it. Despite the steady input of strong drink, I never saw Jerry drunk. The rest of us at the garage imbibed at a nearby pizza house called Pagliachi’s. This became a solid neighborhood pub

Back down the Peninsula, we are still on the El Camino south of San Jose and edging into Steinbeck Country. The great writer once lived near Los Gatos at the edge of the Santa Cruz Mountains. Los Gatos is now part of Greater San Jose. And it is part of the Bay Area mega tropolis. You do not get the feel of Steinbeck until you get further south. He was born in Salinas and his best work is in his stories of his friends around Cannery Row including his pal Ed Rickets the great biologist who wrote Between Pacific Tides, a classic manual of inter tidal ecology. Steinbeck was plagued by various school boards and commissions that banned his books for reasons to do with socialism and suggestive content. He also favored strong drink.

Bob Ross and L went down on a hot late summer night after the onions were harvested and mounded up beside the fields. Their smell permeated the dusty air. The doors of the Gilroy cantinas were wide open and campesinos and their happy music spilled out onto the street.

Ross was from Salinas and knew it well. We had an ongoing debate as to where one could see the most deer. I argued for some of the east Kootenay hot spots like TaTa Creek where sometimes a vehicle would be held up for an hour or so while deer crossed the highway. Ross said the lettuce fields of Salinas Valley were beyond argument. I think he may be correct after we gazed at what seemed to be an endless herd of small coast black tails in the fields These deer live in a climate paradise (it might snow once or twice every thirty or so years but it will just be a flurry or two and no accumulation). There is no serious predation and ample food. On top of that, hunters often lobby for bucks only seasons. After the Salinas Valley, we are still in Steinbeck Country of low hills with grass lands and live oak there are some Digger Pine stands up higher. Many of the grasses are invasive weeds like brome, cheat grass, fennel and other junk that displaces native vegetation and is very flammable. Towns like San Luis Obispo, King City and Paso Robles come up. I like these towns. I am especially fond of Avila a small beach town of great beauty where I would often camp for a week or more when I was on the Trail. It is close to San Luis Obispo. We are now getting close to Southern California and Warmer Ocean water along with far too many people

I know almost nothing about this part of the state. We lived in Los Angeles for while in 1958 but all I can remember is the awful smog and wiping the car windows with a rag soaked in cleaning solvent to clean off the grease. I also remember Beer Can Beach and what a mess it was. A lovely beach littered with thousands of cans and other junk. I am sure it has been cleaned up by now some

The next thing I remember of Southern Cal is Pacific Beach. I guess it was part of San Diego or maybe La Jolla. We lived there in a small apartment just steps away from a great beach. My siblings and I would hit the beach early each day to watch old guys with metal detectors probe the sand for rings, coins and watches. Pacific Beach is a wonderful place. Mexico is just a few jumps away. Remember to pick up Mexican vehicle insurance in San Ysidro. Do not forget this!

I usually head down the Baja to the Mulege area on the Sea of Cortez. After a few days I take the ferry over to Mazatlan then go to San Blas and Puerto Vallarta. But you are on your own now – Enjoy.

Gringo Trail

About the time winter starts to rear its head on the South Coast of BC, is when I start to yearn for the sun and some warmth and think about heading south on the Gringo Trail.

It starts slowly with a few vehicles leaking out of Vancouver and Vancouver Island spots like Hornby and Denman Islands. Then gradually picks up to the point where you think you may be part of a migration to the light. You start to see more campers, vans and old school busses filled with happy faces.

You are approaching Everett now almost in the shadow of Seattle. Seattle is one of the large Cascadian cities that seem to have retained some of its hippie flavor. I am not completely sure about this. It is more of a feeling than something you can weigh and measure. Vancouver once had a thriving counter community in Kitsalano but it has since been gentrified. Of the once strong BC Hippie Community there is little left. Nelson and the Slocan Valley are trying to hang on but the new people with money are closing in tearing down lovely older Nelson homes, putting in boxes and apartments and clogging the streets with cars.

In the southward stream, there will likely be some denizens of the Comet Tavern up on Pike Street and some from Pike Place Market Area.

South of Seattle, there are a number of small to medium sized towns that are much the same. They are usually set back from the I-5 and surrounded by used car lots, malls and gas stations with a few Big Box stores. Some of the downtowns are interesting. Think of Linden, WA but there isn’t much to them. Not enough to delay gringos hunting for the sun.

Portland is the next big town. My sister and her husband live out in Hillsboro, a suburb to the west that I always have trouble finding in a maze of freeways – no hippies here just Mexican families seeking the good life. But there are some interesting towns in the area. Some of my Bay Area friends from the old days spent summers in Seaside when it was an endless party. Eugene is another spot that attracts counter culture folk. People from the East Shore of Kootenay Lake go down for Rainbow Family gatherings. There are other towns where the Granola Gang holds sway but they are off the Trail. Like Hood River and Fairview.

The Trail follows the beautiful Willamette Valley south through some very productive land. I always wonder if some coastal BC birds that disappear for the worst parts of winter when the ground is frozen and snow covered, sneak down there until things warm up a bit. But I have seen robins in Nelson where there is frozen ground and snow for five months. The birds huddle together in a bushy tree and somehow tough it out. There is no mild valley for them to escape to

The Trail still follows Highway I-5 which is not the most interesting. Indeed. But as you approach Southern Oregon, there is another highway branching off at Grants Pass. In fact, there are several other routes you can follow to cut over to the coast. Highway 199 is the one I usually take. The Americans have classified it as a dangerous highway but the only thing I have experienced is someone yelling at me and delivering the one finger salute. I could not figure out why until I turned on the radio and heard a raging right wing radio broadcaster who told his lisisteners that Canada was a pinko country with a gay Prime Minister. Evidently Canada had not joined the fight against Iraq or made enough menacing noise about “weapons of mass destruction” I later learned that right wing radio renters were quite common in the US and were not always held to the truth. I had always thought a Canadian license plate or flag was a kind of protection. Obviously not always.

Highway 199 comes out to the coast at Crescent City, CA. A not bad town and the start of a spectacular stretch of coast that goes on for most of California. This stretch is one I know well because I was a student at Humboldt State University from 1964 to 1968 and lived along this coast for many years from the Oregon Border to San Diego including Arcata, the home of Humboldt State. Life for students was very different then. Rent was minimal because I always lived with four or five roommates and we rented old houses or inexpensive student apartments. Tuition was around fifty dollars per semester and beer was about three bucks a dozen. I always had a job and a bank account. The football coach started a janitorial service so his players could have work. Few of them took the jobs but I and my roommates were happy to work them. I also worked for Coast Oyster Company and The Keg, a little hole in the wall pub but the best one I have ever been associated with. Every night was a feast of excitement and memorable adventure.

My first night at Humboldt was a good example. The party was rolling along pretty good when the staff pulled the curtains and locked the doors at 2 AM the legal closing time. We howled on. The Keg was owned by a character we called Junior. Sometime after three he snuck into a back room and stuffed a large hammer down his pants. “The girls will love this “he explained. Not long after he was cheek to cheek with a very young girl when a scream pierced the smoke-filled air and Junior ducked out the back door. The party was over.

There was a small pool table at The Keg. It was more trouble than it was worth. A small group of hippies often played there nursing their beer and not bothering anyone. Once in awhile they would play jukebox songs like Societies Child by Janis Ian. One night a bunch of Green Berets came sailing in and demanded the hippies give up the table.” We will be done in a few minutes” they said. The Green Berets were large and not in the best of moods, the Hipsters were skinny and underfed. “Your shrubs give up this table or get your clocks cleaned.” The big boys moved in and the battle was on. The Hippies whipped the big lads with ease. They were lightening fast and the Muscle Heads were way over confident.

Just another night at The Keg. I heard it has been sold and replaced by a fancy restaurant with table cloths, flowers and wine. It has been said that Junior has moved to Bellingham.

Not far from The Keg was an apartment building where my roommates and I lived. It overlooked the parking area of a hamburger stand. One afternoon Tom Spencer, our roommate got in line for some food. One us called down to tell the girl “There is a robber in your line up”. We carefully described Spencer and warned her to be careful because “he has been known to be dangerous. “I see him, I see him” she yelled”. Soon after a squad of Gestapo pulled in and logged Spencer into the Crowbar Hotel. We congratulated ourselves but before long the cops were back for me. Spencer had talked himself out of trouble and shifted the blame to us. I had an outstanding traffic warrant so I spent the night in jail and had to take a traffic safety course. Another roommate just dodged the bullet because he had scrapped with the Sherriff about a month before. Evidently the sheriff had forgotten and Spencer had the last laugh.

After Arcata and Eureka, Highway 101 becomes a very scenic by way. Spectacular groves of redwoods line the road. They surely are wonders of the world­ ­- the best of them is in the Avenue of the Giants. The redwoods exist in quite a narrow zone in southern Oregon and coastal California down to the southern part of Big Sur. They stick to the fog zone to dodge the heat and dryness of inland regions. There are some great coastal beaches and fern lined ravines where Roosevelt Elk are seen.

We are now nearing the Napa -Sonoma wine country. This is another beautiful area where the great writer Jack London once lived. I find it somewhat odd that he wrote about the harsh and deadly qualities of the Yukon when he lived in such a calm bucolic area. London was dogged by accusations of socialism which he freely admitted. He also drank his share of spirits which dragged him down eventually. I wonder if drinking also inspired him when he was at his best. Imagine the great story teller sitting by the fire sipping a drink and thinking of the northern trails and wolves howling at the shimmering northern lights

Then it’s across the Golden Gate to the towers of The City. Californians have only one city – San Francisco. No Californian will ever call Los Angeles, San Diego or some other pretender “The City”. San Francisco is the main city of California and the main city of the counter culture and many other movements. It is a beautiful city beyond interesting. However, when I last went out to Height Ashbury you couldn’t help feel it was somehow not real but staged by people who knew how to dress it up as the heart of Hippie Land. When I lived down The Peninsula in Sunnyvale, my high school friends and I would don suits and go up to strip clubs in The City. We would sometimes cross Broadway to the upper reaches of Grant Avenue to hear Beatniks beat their bongos and read poetry. We could have been seeing Kerouac and Ginsburg for all I knew. This is where it all started, where the Beatniks spawned the Flower Children. The terms Beatnik and Hippie were coined by Herb Caen who chronicled life in the city for more than sixty years. His column was termed a love letter to the city he called Baghdad by the Bay.

Just down the Peninsula is San Mateo. I was born there in St. Matthews Hospital in 1942. My Mom and I lived with Nana and Pappy Flynn and Nana’s sister Auntie Sanderson. Dad was away in the Canadian Army. Until he returned from the war, we would live in a wealthy district of San Mateo called Bay Wood. The house was located at 373 Parrot Drive and it was a beauty. “Pure redwood lumber” Pappy would say. Tom Flynn had made lots of money in the Nevada mines and was the President of The San Francisco Stock Exchange then. I sometimes rode in with him on the train. The house is still there as fine as ever. It is probably owned by a dot com millionaire now because it is in one of the most expensive neighbor hoods on earth. Pappy would be disgusted. He was very poor in his youth and remained frugal all his days.

After experiencing Sunnyvale and American Graffiti days where we cruised Fourth Street in San Jose just the way it was done in Graffiti, I signed on to Foothill College for a couple of years and worked at Bill Steffen’s Chevron, a garage out on Stevens Creek Boulevard. Foothill was one of the first community colleges. The Americans called them Junior Colleges and most students took advantage of them to get though the general education requirements: courses like English, Math and Social Sciences. You could graduate with an Associate Arts degree if you had enough credits. My folks were living in Los Altos then but myself and a few pals were living in an old house in Monte Vista we called the Sugar Shack. That was near the peak of the sixties. Watching our old TV one day we saw two of our roommates marching at Berkeley. Maggie had shaved herself bald and Mike was naked except for a Superman cape.

Bill Steffen’s was a neighbood gas station and we also did small repairs. We had a good mechanic but he was almost never sober. He kept a Mickey of WolfSchmits Vodka in his back pocket which he swigged from every few minutes. He would then take a swig of Squirt (a popular soft drink in the States) and mix it in his mouth. I tried it and was not quite up to it. Despite the steady input of strong drink, I never saw Jerry drunk. The rest of us at the garage imbibed at a nearby pizza house called Pagliachi’s. This became a solid neighborhood pub

Back down the Peninsula, we are still on the El Camino south of San Jose and edging into Steinbeck Country. The great writer once lived near Los Gatos at the edge of the Santa Cruz Mountains. Los Gatos is now part of Greater San Jose. And it is part of the Bay Area mega tropolis. You do not get the feel of Steinbeck until you get further south. He was born in Salinas and his best work is in his stories of his friends around Cannery Row including his pal Ed Rickets the great biologist who wrote Between Pacific Tides, a classic manual of inter tidal ecology. Steinbeck was plagued by various school boards and commissions that banned his books for reasons to do with socialism and suggestive content. He also favored strong drink.

Bob Ross and L went down on a hot late summer night after the onions were harvested and mounded up beside the fields. Their smell permeated the dusty air. The doors of the Gilroy cantinas were wide open and campesinos and their happy music spilled out onto the street.

Ross was from Salinas and knew it well. We had an ongoing debate as to where one could see the most deer. I argued for some of the east Kootenay hot spots like TaTa Creek where sometimes a vehicle would be held up for an hour or so while deer crossed the highway. Ross said the lettuce fields of Salinas Valley were beyond argument. I think he may be correct after we gazed at what seemed to be an endless herd of small coast black tails in the fields These deer live in a climate paradise (it might snow once or twice every thirty or so years but it will just be a flurry or two and no accumulation). There is no serious predation and ample food. On top of that, hunters often lobby for bucks only seasons. After the Salinas Valley, we are still in Steinbeck Country of low hills with grass lands and live oak there are some Digger Pine stands up higher. Many of the grasses are invasive weeds like brome, cheat grass, fennel and other junk that displaces native vegetation and is very flammable. Towns like San Luis Obispo, King City and Paso Robles come up. I like these towns. I am especially fond of Avila a small beach town of great beauty where I would often camp for a week or more when I was on the Trail. It is close to San Luis Obispo. We are now getting close to Southern California and Warmer Ocean water along with far too many people

I know almost nothing about this part of the state. We lived in Los Angeles for while in 1958 but all I can remember is the awful smog and wiping the car windows with a rag soaked in cleaning solvent to clean off the grease. I also remember Beer Can Beach and what a mess it was. A lovely beach littered with thousands of cans and other junk. I am sure it has been cleaned up by now some

The next thing I remember of Southern Cal is Pacific Beach. I guess it was part of San Diego or maybe La Jolla. We lived there in a small apartment just steps away from a great beach. My siblings and I would hit the beach early each day to watch old guys with metal detectors probe the sand for rings, coins and watches. Pacific Beach is a wonderful place. Mexico is just a few jumps away. Remember to pick up Mexican vehicle insurance in San Ysidro. Do not forget this!

I usually head down the Baja to the Mulege area on the Sea of Cortez. After a few days I take the ferry over to Mazatlan then go to San Blas and Puerto Vallarta. But you are on your own now – Enjoy.