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...

Memories of Yellowpoint

For over twenty-five years, Ken and I spent a few days each April at Yellowpoint Lodge, near Ladysmith. We have such happy memories of those precious times.  

We packed the car up with books, scrabble board, wine and 'goodies' for our stay.  We had the same cabin each year, so it seemed to us like 'home away from home'. Sometimes we invited friends to stay in the cabin which adjoined ours, separated by a common door.

After a good night's sleep, it was a bit of a walk from our cabin to the Lodge.  As we meandered along the trail we encountered other guests and exchanged pleasantries.  We often came upon rabbits, deer, otters or even eagles, perched high in the tree tops.  There were Easter lilies galore and many wild roses.

As we approached the lodge, the gong rang out welcoming us to breakfast.  With much anticipation we joined the very well-behaved guests lined up either side of a long table outside the dining room, where an array of juices, cereals, prunes, yogurt, porridge and temptingly warm muffins greeted us.  Once we entered the beautiful country-style dining area:

and chose our tables, we selected from more substantial offerings of scrambled, fried or poached eggs, bacon, sausages, toast or pancakes, all accompanied by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Of course, over the years, we made many friends. 

After breakfast we often joined them in the spacious and comfortable lounge for cosy conversations held to the accompaniment of gentle classical music and the odd crackle from the fire in the giant floor-to-ceiling fireplace.  

And then there were the walks through the quiet engulfing woods or along the inviting beach.  Often we came across items of interest on the beach and one year Ken made a point of photographing some of the flotsam and jetsam we encountered.  We had much fun composing captions for the photos.

Lunch was a repeat performance of the breakfast routine. Various salads were offered, as well as delicious home-made soups and just-out-of-the-oven chunks of wholesome bread, all very nourishing and satisfying.

We returned to our cabin to light our fire for ambiance and then read, rest and play scrabble. Around 4 p.m. we began our pre-dinner glasses of wine, and, if we had friends in the adjoining cabin, we invited them to 'come through' and join us.

Once again we strolled toward the Lodge, beckoned by the dinner gong.  Supper was usually brought to our tables of eight by friendly young staff. Some evenings we sat with the same people, sometimes with new people we had met.  After dinner we enjoyed some more chit-chat around the big fireplace before returning 'home' to our cabin for some more reading or one more scrabble game.

Once snuggled up in our comfortable bed, we were lulled to sleep by the steady lapping of the waves on the beach outside the window below us and often by the contented purring of the resident (forbidden) cat on the foot of our bed.

(My niece, Dale Stofer, painted this lovely rendition of the Yellowpoint cat)

We have very fond memories of our times at Yellowpoint and are fortunate to have wonderful photos to take us back in time to enjoy it all again. 

An Inscrutable Man - my father

My father, Arthur Featherstone Priestley, was born in England.  As I stated in an earlier post about my mother, my dad met my mum in the Indian village of Aiyansh, near Terrace, in northern BC, where her father was the first 'white' missionary in the area.

Dad decided to settle in Aiyansh and built a house overlooking the mighty Nass River.

He also built a store to serve the Indians and settlers.  The supplies for the store arrived by boat and were hauled up the steep incline by means of a skid, which dad no doubt also constructed.

As well as having a large vegetable garden, catching salmon, shooting deer and moose, Dad did a great of trapping - beaver, wolf, otter, lynx, marten, weasel, mink.  I don't know who he sold the hides to, but his efforts paid off.   

He also provided all the wood for our cook stove and heater, using a whip-saw to do the job.

To add to these accomplishments, dad was made a Justice of the Peace and Notary Public, and Mount Priestley was so-named in his honor.

I still don't know why, in 1917, when  my older sister was only 6 years old and my brother Les was just 11 months, dad volunteered his services in the first world war.

He left mother to look after the store and care for the two young children, with the help of neighbours. Interestingly, dad served as a stretcher-bearer even though on home ground he was known to faint at the sight of blood. He was discharged from the army May 24, 1919.

Upon his return, he and my mother had two more children, my brother Ken in 1921 and then me, in 1924.

In 1927 we all paid a visit to dad's parents, who had relocated to Vancouver.  We must have attended the PNE because dad won a car!

However, dad didn't drive so he sold the car and we returned to the north until 1929 when we sold up and moved to Victoria.

Dad had many vocations.  He ran a second-hand store, an auction room and for many years worked for the hardware firm of McLennan, McFeely and Prior.  He was so knowledgeable that people would ask for 'Pop' Priestley to serve them.

My father didn't get a driver's license until he was 75 years old, when he became a bouncer (!) in a hotel/pub in Port Renfrew.

Dad lived until he was 100 years old.  He loved to play cards and golf and although he was a very insular person (you might say 'inscrutable'), he loved 'the ladies', especially if they were attractive.  He was not what you would call 'warm and fuzzy' and I certainly did not like the way he treated my mother.  There were times when I could cheerfully have strangled him, but he was my dad, and Father's Day seems like a good time to remember him, all his accomplishments as well as his foibles.

CLOSE CONNECTIONS - A FAMILY CONNECTION

Margaret was not only our neighbour, she was our sister-in-law, the widow of Ken's brother, Reg Stofer.

After her husband's death, Margaret took a night school course in cake decorating.  She began slowly with birthday cakes for family and friends 

and then graduated to very elaborate wedding cakes featuring dainty roses, intricate lattice work, delicate bells and loops.

Many of these cakes had stories to tell, like the wedding cake of a cousin, which Ken and I delivered by car to San Francisco.  It arrived in mint condition, only requiring a couple of dabs of icing to replace a tiny broken rose.

Then there was the cake that travelled to Duncan.  It was topped with a miniature airplane crafted in icing, as the bridegroom flew a plane as a hobby.  (The only wedding I attended where the bride flew off on her honeymoon in a tiny plane piloted by her new husband.  The groom manfully scooped up his bride, still wearing her wedding gown, and deposited her into the cockpit.  Quite a sight witnessing that take-off).

I think the most memorable wedding cake, however, was the one for my daughter.  Fortunately she wanted a white cake, as opposed to the traditional fruit cake.  The decoration was to be extremely simple, just pale peach icing with an overlay of white lace-work to match her peach/lace wedding dress.

The day before the wedding, I sauntered next door to Margaret's to see how things were progressing with the cake.  There was no answer at the door, so, thinking she was in another room, I just let myself in.

Kim, her large white Samoyd, greeted me, but not with his usual enthusiasm, in fact he looked rather well-fed and guilty.  I called out for Margaret but there was no answer. I thought I would take a look in the dining room (scene of most of Margaret's cake decorating) and just check on the progress of the cake. The door was ajar, which I thought was ominous as Margaret always kept that door tightly closed. (I learned later she had been called next door in a hurry).

I pushed the door open and was greeted by a floor covered in cake crumbs.  Kim had been hard at work. Over the years, this intelligent dog had been taught many tricks, one of which was to retrieve a piece of toast which had been placed at the edge of the kitchen table as a reward.  I guess the tantalizing aroma of fresh vanilla-flavoured cake had been too much for him to resist.  

I could just picture Kim all by himself, doing a quick roll-over to allay his guilt and then sitting on his haunches and helping himself (alas, Kim is no longer with us - not because of the cake, just old age).

I hastily wrote a note to Margaret, explaining what had happened and telling her not to worry - I was rushing home to make another cake.

The new cake was duly decorated and the finished product was a delight to behold.  Surrounded by tulle and topped with a tiny vase of sweetheart roses, it was the picture of innocence. Little did the guests know of the turmoil behind the scene.

Margaret left us a number of years ago.  We really miss her as she was so much a part of our lives as well as our family. 

The neighbourhood is not the same without Margaret at the very top of the hill.

Close Connections - a Welsh Connection

Rhoda was another interesting neighbour.  She never married and had been very close to her mother and father.  When I first met her she was living in a little cottage at the foot of the hill. Her father had died in Montreal and she and her mother had moved to Victoria.  When I met Rhoda, her mother had just passed away and Rhoda was devastated to the point of becoming a recluse.  I walked by her home with our little Welsh Corgi, Jimmy.  When she spotted the corgi, she left off gardening and ran over to pet him.  

We began to talk, she shared about how much she missed her mother.  In the course of the conversation she mentioned that she had travelled the world and had hundreds of slides. I encouraged her to share her slides with people.  We became friends and in no time she came out of her shell and began inviting neighbours to "Slide-show Evenings".  Her pictures were fabulous and the details she provided with each slide made "Evenings with Rhoda" a real treat.  She eventually showed her slides to the general public via the local library.

Interestingly, Rhoda shared the same birthday as Ken, so we often celebrated their birthdays together. She adored Ken!

Rhoda travelled to almost every country in the world, always travelling on her own.  In Russia she was invited to see some guy's 'etchings', in Turkey she slept on a rooftop, in Rio De Janeiro she left a bus tour and wandered off on her own, to capture the statue 'Christ the Redeemer' on film.  

Suddenly a man appeared and pushed her off the road and down an embankment, threatened her by holding a large rock over her head, took her camera and watch, not realizing she was wearing a money belt.  Then, just as suddenly, he dropped the rock and ran away.  Rhoda said she was never sure if the man realized she was old enough to be his grandmother or if he felt convicted by the Statute of Christ.

Rhoda had fascinating tales to tell.  There was the time when she developed an extremely itchy spot on her leg after returning from some exotic country.  Days later she witnessed a chubby worm crawl out of the infected area.

In Victoria, Rhoda rode everywhere on a very old pushbike. With her rough attire and basket filled with a variety of stuff including bits of wood, she usually resembled a bag lady. But when necessary, Rhoda rose to the occasion with a vengeance. 

Rhoda refused to have a telephone or a television.  She liked her garden kept neat and often rose at 3 or 4 a.m. working under the street light to rake up offending leaves or anything that would look untidy in the light of day.

Our Rhoda was a bit eccentric but she was a fascinating and wonderful person to know and we miss her very much.  The bottom of the hill is just not the same without her.

Close Connections - A German Connection

We have had some interesting neighbours in our time 'on the Hill' on Christmas Avenue.

Lolo was a solidly built German lady with a heart to match. She was a keen gardener and tackled any job that came along including building herself a grape arbor.

I think she was divorced. She had a married daughter who lived up Island as well as teenage son living at home.

Before she retired, she was a cook in a government home for troubled teens - a perfect match for her because she exuded warmth and love.

She often held little neighbourhood gatherings (including scrabble games) for which she provided great German dishes.  Her home was filled with her own paintings and fabulous quilting creations. 

When Lolo retired, I held a little 'do' for her and those present gave her gifts.  She was quite overwhelmed and very appreciative.

Back row, left to right: Ken, the Hatches, Marge Preston, Marge Clayton, Lolo

Front row left to right: Margaret Stofer, Lynette Stofer, Rhoda McKenzie

Sadly, Lolo developed cancer although she struggled on bravely, even playing scrabble a few weeks before her death.

Ken gave a heartfelt eulogy at her Celebration of Life.

We think of Lolo often and miss her presence on the Hill.