Close Encounters of the Best Kind - Part Two

Once we spent an unforgettable week camping on Hornby Island.  We held a treasure hunt on the beach, complete with a complicated treasure map which the kids had to decipher.  That was the year we built a little raft and they had great fun floating around the cove, keeping within wading distance of the shore.  

It was very peaceful there; Ken and I managed to read several books and witnessed some breathtaking sunsets.

Another year we made a point of visiting just about every campsite on Vancouver Island, stopping at Ivy Green, Englishman River, Qualicum Falls, Stamp Falls, Miracle Beach and Elk Falls.  

It was very enjoyable.  I never cease to admire and appreciate the wonderful camp facilities we have on the Island.

A few years later we graduated to a tiny trailer that we pulled behind our 1951 bottle green Ford.  

This time we headed for the Interior, our destination being Aiyansh, my birthplace and, at that time, the home of my sister.  Aiyansh is located 70 miles inland from Terrace and was reached by navigating a rough logging road which curved around Lava Lake.

Pulling the trailer meant more gas consumption and we found ourselves stopping quite often at service stations where the request to ‘fill her up with regular’ was often repeated by Ken. Near Clinton we ran into a storm and when the windshield wipers became futile at dispersing the sudden downpour, we decided to stop for the night.  We pulled into a lay-by and ran through the rain to our little trailer.  Once inside we lit the propane lamp and I made some nice hot cocoa.  It was fun to hear the rain pelting down on the aluminum roof and know we were all snug and set for the night.

Our son had the upper bunk and our daughter the lower.  Sometime during the night our daughter found it necessary to eliminate some of the cocoa she had earlier consumed and so took advantage of the white enamel pan we had for just such an emergency. All was deathly quiet but for the ping of our daughter’s output.  Her brother leaned nonchalantly over his top bunk and said “fill her up with regular!’

Later on this same vacation we decided to take a side trip into Barkerville. At this time in his life, our son was into archery on a small scale and everywhere we stopped, he wanted to buy arrows. We walked past  the replica of a house of ill repute of the gold rush days.  To indicate the occupants of the building, a female dummy had been strategically placed in one of the upper windows, with a tantalizing leg, complete with ruffled garter, slung casually over the window sill.  Our son, completely oblivious to the real significance of the building, saw only the sign advertising its wares, “Sporting House.”  He immediately wanted to know if he could buy some arrows there!

We eventually reached Aiyansh after a hair-raising trip on the logging road.  Our little trailer looked pretty forlorn.  The sheets of cardboard, with which we had ‘securely’ protected the windows, now dangled almost completely off the frames as a result of the bone-shaking drive over the gravel road. Everything was covered with a layer of fine dust.

But it was all worth it for the kids to explore the barn,



see the interior of a ‘real live’ log cabin, where grizzly bear skins adorned the walls, a working wood stove stood in the kitchen, water came by hand from the nearby creek, fish could be caught in the lake,



and feral kittens played in the fields.  



A camping experience they have never forgotten!

Our camping days are over now, we prefer the convenience and comfort of home, but on looking back I would not have missed those days for anything. There are many forms of close encounters but I think we had the best kind.

Close Encounters of the Best Kind - Part One

'Close encounters of the third kind' weren't heard of fifty-six years ago when Ken and I first ventured into the woods but I'm sure our first camping trip caused just about as much excitement.

It took us several years before we could afford the luxury of a tent, four sleeping bags and a cook stove.  We were in the midst of building our own house and money and time were pretty scarce.  Camping was about the only type of holiday that matched our pocketbook.

I think all children should experience the thrill of camping outdoors at least once in their lives.

On the first day of our departure, the kids and I spent the morning trailing from house to car with armloads of various camping supplies while their father frantically finished off some cement work or other construction. Ken worked until the kids and I had the car all packed up and then tried to get 'in the mood' before we took off.

There were always last minute skirmishes to make sure we had all the necessities.  I remember making a long list and checking off each item: an axe, matches, bandaids, food, with reminders from certain members of the family "Don't forget the peanut butter, mum!"

We seldom left in gay abandon as there was usually an unexpected disaster just as we thought we were on our way. It often took until we were over 'the hump' of the Malahat before I saw the pressure gauge of my husband's face slowly change from one of tense preoccupation about an unfinished project at home to anticipation of joys ahead. Then he began to enter into the mood and started joking about the bears we might see and adventures we might experience.

I well remember the first time we stepped out of the car at Englishman River Falls.  Our little son was so excited.  He was about four years old and had difficulty speaking some words.  He spotted a squirrel running up a tall tree and ran to his dad shouting "Daddy, daddy, I see a skurl, a skurl!"

Daddy, trying to guide his son down the road of life, stopped to correct Mark's pronunciation.

"You mean squirr-el, not skurl'"

Again our son tried to twist his little tongue around that elusive "Q" but with no success. Finally, in desperation, he shouted out "Oh, okay then, 'chip-mump!" With that being settled, father and son wandered off down the path to find the skurl.

Oh the fun we had collecting water in pails and gathering firewood by the armful for our campfire.  There is nothing to equal the aroma of bacon frying early in the morning or seeing the soft curl of smoke from the fire drifting up through the trees, while the echo of someone chopping wood rang through the stillness.

We lay awake at night listening to the distant roar of the waterfalls and telling creepy stories, but the kids felt safe because we were all together in our cosy tent.

There was a house on the corner of the road leading into the campgrounds where one could buy delicious home-baked pies which we often purchased for dessert when our supplies began to run low.

As we explored the trails around the falls, Ken added to the fun.  Sometimes he unobtrusively tossed a stone into the bushes and then said "What was that?  I think I heard a bear!"

The kids entered into the spirit of adventure and squealed with delighted fear.  We also hid pennies in the trunks of dead trees and the kids had a great time trying to find these hidden treasures.

Sometimes we left the campground and went to the beach at Parksville where we spent the whole day playing in the water, knowing it was perfectly safe and shallow, stretching for miles over warm sand. 

On those days we packed a picnic lunch and returned home at the end of the afternoon to our home-away-from-home in the woods.

To be continued...