The Swedish Time Machine

 

          There was a time up until the mid 1970's when small European manufacturers dominated the world of off-road motorcycle racing with their lightweight, snarling two-cycle engines and knobbly tired race bikes. The Husqvarna was a serious race bike in a no fool around Swedish kind of way.  It responded well to the serious input of an experienced rider, and was the most reliable machine available. Certainly the fact my that hero Malcolm Smith rode one, and the king of cool himself Steve McQueen competed on them helped my move from Spanish motorcycles to Swedish made. During the early seventies I was to own a string of them with support from the Canadian importer. I would get a pair of bikes of different engine displacement, enabling me to ride two classes. That would be up to six motos every race I went to, then load them in the van and drive 6 or 8 hours home. I look back now, and I have to marvel at the endurance of the young me.
I've owned many motorcycles in my time and for the most part, they have faded from memory in the ensuing decades, but there is one that stands out above all others. A '74 model that by fate has shared many experiences and brings back numerous memories from another era.

      I received it in April of 1974, at which time I was an experienced mechanic and motorcycle racer at the ripe old age of 20, and working at one of the better known shops. It was a big deal when a truck dropped off the two crates from Sweden and I could hardly wait for the business day to end so I could drag them in for assembly. The crates were white pine from northern Sweden with Husqvarna stenciled on the sides.  One crate held a smaller displacement bike that had a complacent career then sold off at the end of the season. The other crate held a CR400 model, and I could hardly pry the crate apart fast enough. The original Husqvarna factory was not that big, and what I had in the crate here was not far removed from what Heikki Mikkola had won the 500cc world championship on. I got the wheels on and put it up on an elevated work stand and did what we called in the trade a pre-delivery inspection.  The next day, at 10 o'clock coffee break I went out, poured some pre-mix fuel in and turned on the gas petcock. Standing on the left side of the beast I booted it a half dozen times with my right to bring it to life. I warmed it up good then turned the racket off, the first test-ride would have to wait until noon lunch break on the vacant lot out back, and the next two hours until lunch break seemed to take forever. 

    The larger displacement open class bikes were my favorite, probably because there were less riders in the class so there was always more room on the track, but they were a handful to ride, and I wasn't like a big guy or anything either, so with a little runt like me in the saddle of a powerful open class race bike it was like an added advantage, if I could keep it pointed where I wanted to go. Despite making all kinds of power, those old bikes had little for suspension, but we didn't know any better.
At a time when  race bikes were run for a year then sold off, when I fired that 400 up for the first time, I never figured it would go on to earn its own level of celebrity, with a penchant for attracting attention to itself. And I certainly never thought I would be talking about it 40 years later.

     The adventures began a week later at the season opener. A car load of my buddies had made the trip to offer some moral support. All this moral support and their cooler had hiked to an upper area of the moto-cross course where few other spectators had ventured. Every time I went by they would jump up and down and holler enthusiastically. Or else they would point horrifically at my bike like there was something falling off and of course I would have to slow down and look, they seemed to think there was something pretty funny about that and they were still laughing when I came around the next lap.

How I crossed the finish line that race has become a mute point, it was what happened next that has made the day stand out in the annals of motorcycling history. I passed the flagman and instead of turning off to the pits  continued, at a subdued pace of course, further around the track, up to where my buddies were congregated. They got a big laugh when I came around once more and they held the track side ribbon up so I could ride the bike under. I had only intended to chat and hang out for bit. The next class had started and I'm having a pretty good visit with my haywire friends while it is going on. In the final few laps, someone, I don't know who, but I'm pretty certain it wasn't me, one of my so-called friends suggested to buddy Dale that it would be 'pretty funny' to streak the track on my bike. For those of you that don't remember the 1970's, to 'streak', was a thankfully short lived fad that meant to remove ones clothing, and dash through a public gathering. I had heard of it on the news, maybe happening in the States, or at a tennis game someplace, but I didn't think someone would actually do it.

My buddy Dale was not a person to be given on a dare lightly, "I'll do it!" he states.

"You don't have a helmet!" I argued, figuring this would put an end to the scheme.

All my so-called friends answered at once..."He's got yours!!"

And so he did. On went my helmet, off came his clothes, back on went his boots, up went the course marker, and off charged Dale in his skin tight riding suit.

      We were all killing ourselves and I was doubled over getting a sore gut from all the laughing. Suddenly, my hilarity went to stunned silence on the realization people were going to think it was me. The bike had my racing number on it in three places, he had on my distinctive painted Bell helmet, and anyways, there were only a few new Huskys around.

"Oh hell", I said to myself as bike, rider, and helmet disappear down the back straight.

     The race was in its final lap, the back markers began to overtake a tall bony fellow standing up on the pegs of a barking Husky 400, and not only is the man naked, he's not even in the right class. They would do a double take or two over their shoulder on the way by. Spectators began to notice the new addition to the class, causing a stir of hoots and cheers that proceeded him around the course. The flagman waved the finish flag enthusiastically for the unexpected straggler and his jaw drops when the big Husky roars by with its naked rider and continues on. The volunteer girls up in the lap scoring tower had thought their sheets where complete, when another bike and rider pass the finish line, "# 172" they wrote down, then realized what they had just seen. Dale accelerated over a series of jumps and whoop-de-doo's then braked for the slow hair-pin corner where he of course stalled it and it took awhile for him to get the beast kick started and going again.

The crowd cheered and I would loved to have seen the smile Dale had on under his...er, my helmet.

Vic Blewitt, my employer and sponsor, stood at track side pointing, "Look!" he is purported to have shouted, "That little bastard is streaking!".

Others along the way apparently wondered, "My goodness, what ever got into Robin?".

Some came to the conclusion I must have fallen on my head too hard, and this being the end result.

      Arriving back after his naked victory lap, we lifted the ribbon and a giggling Dale rode under. The guys were all slapping him on the back and still thinking this is all pretty funny. Pretty funny for them maybe, they didn't have to try and sneak back into the pits and prepare the bike for another race. I coasted most of the way back, using sagebrush for cover.

"Its him!" someone remarks from the spectator area, and to my mortification people begin to point, cheer, and whistle. By the time I get my bike to my van, the pits were a buzz with the news about that quiet long haired kid from Kelowna on the big Husky, streaking the entire track and freaking out the lap score girls, the parents of several children present, and the entire Shady Grove bible study group, out on their annual field trip. The race promoter stomped in and bangs on the van door.

"OK son, you had your fun, don't let that happen again!" he told me sternly.

   I assured him that would never happen again, and was absolutely mortified that people thought it was me. They might speculate I look like Dale under my riding gear, or might stall it on the hair-pin corner. I hid in my van to escape all the remarks and curious on-lookers, but that was nothing compared to the ribbing I got on the start line for the next open class moto. Waiting for the trophy presentation later seemed to take hours, and I was fair game for every would be comic around.

For instance..."Hi Robin", giggled the girls to my red face at the concession stand, "We didn't recognize you with your riding pants on".

Some people just had to walk up and stare at me out of curiosity, just to see what kind of kook would ride around a race track naked.

Well it took me some time to live that one down.

   Unknown to the participants that day, to my horror, and my so-called friends amusement, a part-time photographer and sometime submitter had the presence of mind to snap a picture as Dale went by. I had just quit hearing about the whole incident at every race I went to when a national motorcycle magazine publishes the photo, along with a short by-line that states while they published this first time novel streaker, it would be the last. They were right too, there was a rash of streakers at events across the country and finally, the national organizing body had to clamp down to discourage it.

But there's nothing like being first, even if it wasn't you.
 

 Later on that summer of '74, I had an opportunity to ride for a crew putting together footage for a series of television commercials. We met the film crew at a location in the Okanagan mountains with a trailer full of motorcycles and a change or two of riding gear and helmets. The plan was to shoot some scenes of general interest, then some footage of me performing on my Husky, and I never needed much encouragement to perform, believe me. There were a few jumps around and a few things, and then I started driving around on the back wheel, which they didn't expect, doing a slow wheelie by the camera and giving it a peace sign with one hand, things like that which totally blew these people away, and going to look really cool slipped into the tail end of a TV commercial.

Soon I get bored of course, and suggest a few high speed passes by the camera on the back wheel standing on the seat.

      There was a section of rough road along there and not ideal for what I had in mind, but everyone agreed it would make great footage. I was being rather casual about riding on the back wheel standing on the seat, but I did it all the time, so it was no big deal under the right conditions. I made a few dry runs in both directions so the cameraman could sort out his panning and exposure, and other film school terms they liked to use. The main drawback to riding your dirt bike on the back wheel standing on the seat is you can't reach to tap the rear brake if you begin to go over backwards.  I was 20 years old and made from rubber I'm sure,  since I was a kid I had of gone over backwards plenty of times as part of learning process, and it was always a tough way to unload because you let go and drop a few feet to the ground then immediately have to try and run at a very high rate of speed.  You can figure on getting two or three well meant, long spaced steps in before you fall hard on your face and skid to a stop. Though I'd jump right up and run after my bike to pick it up before the gas drained out before I'd have a quick look at any new scuffs and sore spots on myself.

      None of that crossed my mind as I put the bike in 4th gear and stepped up on the seat. Weight transfer is such that even in a high gear, it is sort of easy to lift the front wheel up. I remember it was going along pretty good there up on the back wheel until I crossed a dip about where the crew is all set up. The uneven ground put a monkey wrench in things and the front wheel came up too high, at that point I had the throttle turned off completely, and the bike balanced precariously as if deciding which way to go. But I had a pretty good idea, as there was a very serious case of deja vu going on inside my helmet. The bike overbalanced and slowly rotated backwards. With no little amount of reluctance, I pushed the bike away and stepped down onto to the fast travelling ground.
   It sure hurt to watch that brand new Husqvarna going away without me, it dug the back fender in then came back down on both wheels before it veered into rough ground and cartwheeled into some bushes. I hit the ground running, determined that this time, I would sprint fast enough to stay on my feet. And I did too, for a moment, before doing a tremendous face plant and skidded along for a ways before cartwheeling into some bushes myself. I jumped up and ran for my bike, turned the gas off, gave it a quick check then put it on the stand. I wasn't hurt, a little gravel-rash here and there, but that was part of the territory, we expected to get bucked off these things once in awhile.  I was more sore about the broken rear fender. The film crew was speechless. The television commercials were a big success, but the footage of my wreck ended up on the cutting room floor, as being deemed not  particularly indicative to selling motorcycles. The producer brought around some stills that have been tacked up on the wall of every motorcycle shop I ever worked in.

      For one week that summer of '74, at a resort in the Alberta foot-hills, the Husqvarna factory sponsored a training center for a handful of Husky riders, headed by several times world champion Rolf Tibblin. His big thing was conditioning, and we really put some serious miles on our running shoes, starting early, worked out severely in the gym, then chased each other around a dusty track in the hot sun all afternoon. In all, it was a unique experience to look back on, but it was a hell of a way to spend my one summer week off work.

      Seasons and interests change, and I moved onto other things a year later. I took the Husky with me, pulling it out when life needed to be livened-up a little. I remember one time on the outskirts of Edmonton where I worked for a time at an equipment yard. Someone, probably me, suggested I put on a show for the guys at lunch break by going out and doing some wheelies up and down the paved road out front. On my return pass I see a plain looking car coming towards me in the other lane, sort of slowing down and taking particular interest in my nicely executed 1 km long wheel stand. Well I figured that was fine, I'd just wheelie right on by, which I did in grand style, in the process of which I catch a brief glimpse of the driver, whom was obviously wearing a police uniform.
   So I ran from the law. Problem was I didn't have anywhere to go but back in the fenced equipment yard from which I originated, skidding in and trying to hide like some idiot behind a dumpster, a trail of dust leading to my hiding spot. I took off the helmet and wondered what would transpire next. The plain looking car with it's smartly dressed driver arrived at the dumpster in short order, this time with flashing blue and red lights in its grill. I just smiled and shrugged, and accepted the ticket that was as long as my arm. The guys went back to work fixing equipment, but the policeman and I could hear all the laughing going on over in the shop.

      Not much later, while I was still smarting from getting busted out on the street, I was out one Sunday afternoon riding around a vacant field, close to what I thought was a large white warehouse, going around in circles, doing wheelies for the kids, and jumping off dirt piles, no doubt making a bunch of noise with all my fun. Pretty soon a muddied-up cop car appears on the scene and chases me down. Turns out that large white building was a hospital, and some spoil sport had called me in. That dang bike had gotten me in trouble once again!

    A year or so later the big Husky was turned off for the last time, parked and neglected. I sold it to my cousin Will when I left to find Yukon gold, who parked it in a barn. It seemed an inglorious end to the purebred Swedish race bike. Ten years later I swapped him back for a generator, and I put it in my own barn for a quarter of a century.  It has been 40 years since I opened that crate, and 34 since the beast has run.

   I turned 60 back awhile. Quite a traumatic experience I must say, and felt an urge to re-live my youth, and after all these years brought the Husky down, cleaned it up, and spent a week going over it and getting it race ready once again. It had sprung a few leaks over the years, I had fork-seals in stock, and matched up a leaking shift shaft seal to one from an old Honda, and cut a new clutch cover gasket from an old drum head carton.

40 years ago, when I uncrated this bike and looked into the distinctive chrome panel of the gas tank for the first time, there was a much younger man looking back at me. With much longer hair!

      Out in the sunshine, gassed up and ready to fire up, or not, I wasn't sure it would go after all this time. I turned the gas petcock on and stood beside it to boot it with my right foot. And you need to boot these things with authority too or it may backfire your knee back into your face. It gave a couple of pops then about the 6th kick it fired up with a big racket that almost startled me.

It settled down and I was fiddling with the idle and this big noisy bike is going BANG! BANG! BABANG! BANG!.... once again after all these years.

It sounded different somehow, though, and I look and see something being shot out of the exhaust. What the hell. I shut it off and reached down. Well darned if it isn't cat food. Mice had taken cat food and squirreled away a pile of it inside the exhaust chamber.

I chuckled and fired it up again, reved it up and blew the remaining cat food out the tailpipe out onto the ground. Then it struck me then that the moment of truth had arrived, and I was about to re-live my youth. I climbed on and pulled in the clutch lever, then it gave a clunk as I put it in gear,  I fed it some gas and slowly let the clutch out. I felt a strange transformation take place.

  What was intended to be casual putt around the yard reminiscing about the old days turned into anything but. No sooner had I let the clutch out when I felt the throttle roll on hard and my hair suddenly grew from under my helmet, flying freely in the wind. I felt my foot going through the gears and the bike tore across the lawn with a big rooster tail of grass clods that is going to take me a week to repair, blipping the throttle and throwing it over to slide in and square up on the poor driveway. There was an ensuing shower of gravel and debris and tore a trench the length of it. I flew by the gate like it was standing still, then skidded to a stop before I flew out onto the main road, with my luck I would bump into the tribal policeman or something. I burned a donut around and had a more sedate ride back in the yard, turning the fuel off and shutting it off for the last time once again.

 My heart was racing with an exhilaration I've not felt for some time, and its a good thing I took my pills that morning. I was short of breath and my cheeks hurt from smirking. That was it, all I needed was to just ride it once, then put it away. I have no interest in riding it anywhere, it was made to go fast. Anyways, it scares the deer. Maybe I don't really want to be 20 all over again, I don't think I have enough energy, but I would sure go for 40.

   Awhile back, I thought I might sell it to someone for vintage racing, or to a collector, along with old photos and trophy's won on the bike for provenance. But hell, I think I'll just  put it away again. Just in case when I turn 80, I might want to wheel it out, blow cat food from the exhaust once more and feel like 20 again, if even only across the lawn at the old folks home someday.
But I suppose some spoil-sport would just call the cops.

Its A Long Way To Town If You Want To Rock And Roll

   Mel's annual birthday party and general whoop-up is a much anticipated event up in Pemberton. Her partner Kirk runs a car repair outfit in town and puts on a BBQ, barn dance and general whoop up for her this time every year. Included in the evenings fun is live music and I started inviting myself several years back.
   The day before I go out and have a look at my van. I've had some tire problems on my Safari tour bus recently, it is a long story that includes a ruined tire and trying to match it because it is an all wheel drive and.....anyways, the long and short of it is that Melanie's birthday rolled around and I still had a tour bus with 3 tires. I figured I would jack both my vehicles up and put the pickup wheels on the van to go in with. It turned out to be more work than I was interested in, and on top of it all the lug nuts were seizing and very difficult to remove, I had a several foot long snipe for leverage too! So I figure I will put on the donut spare to go in on. The damn nuts barely go on and end up seizing before the rim is on tight, so like I say, I had a snipe on my breaker bar and kept givin' her until the wheel stud broke off. Well, I was a little choked about that, but I could still go in on 4 lug nuts. So I proceed to tighten up another...it too snaps off.

   I end up with the rusty spare wheel sort of secured on there with 3 lug nuts. I figure this is fine as long as I take it easy. Saturday rolls around and I start loading all my gear in the tour bus van. I've got a little bigger kit than most drummers, and I was supplying the PA system. You see the mountain of gear I've got and you would think Cirque du Soliel was showing up. The speakers are almost the size of me and I'm getting too old to pack my own stuff around, then theres the sub woofer for my bass drum that is all I can do to lift it. I get it all stuffed in there and it is quite a load. I was still wondering how well that front wheel was on there, but decided to make a slow run for town, allowing 2 hours to get there.  I'm driving along and everything is going pretty good, I'm going slowly, so I have plenty of time to think. Way down the road, almost at the lake, all of a sudden it occurs to me that I forgot my bass drum foot pedal back home. I slammed on the brakes and dug around in there and sure as hell, no foot pedal. I couldn't play with out it. I suppose I could,....but I wouldn't. I called myself a few names while I turned around a charged back home, I arrived back in a huff and retrieved the pedal, and thought to check the front wheel before leaving to see that it is working loose once more. So I get my long handled wrench on there to snug it up and just as I figured would happen, another stud busts off. So holy cow, its a good thing I have two vehicles, I backed my half broken down old rat truck over and started to pile all my gear in the back. It had taken an hour and a half to carefully stow the equipment and kit in the van, but about 10 minutes to pile it all in the back of the pickup, behind the seat and strapped in the passenger seat and away I went, half expecting the pickup to fall apart or calve on the road.

   Kirk and Mel live at a horse riding center not far out of Pemberton. We set up right in the stables for the dance later where we couldn't do any damage and there was a big feed and BBQ going on just outside.

Things really began to liven up out there around the old fire pit after dark.

   This is my favorite seat, looking at musicians backsides. My band mate in Blackwater MC, Josh 'Frontman' Fairbrother was there. Local keyboard whiz Roz sat on my sub woofer with her keys on a table barn dance style, and Jared showed up with his bass.  Cowboy Sam Field wandered in and played a few sets of country. 
   While this is going on I'm watching a giggling crew string up a (fittingly enough) horse like pinata in the area at stage front. They wheel a wobbly but highly enthusiastic Melanie in and the crowd follows, and we just keep rockin' on. Kirk put the blindfold on and armed her with an appropriate pinata bat, which I think was previously a post for a fence someplace. Melanie grew up in the maple sugar region of Quebec, she works for the Village of Pemberton, pruning trees with a chainsaw, operating a large weed whacker, and doing heavy landscape work. For relaxation she drives a race car and flings bales of hay around the riding stable.
I had to question the wisdom of providing her with such a formidable weapon, but we were in a horse barn after all, and the horses had been let out for the night for their own protection. At the crowds urging she began to take great powerful swats into the air amid great cheers. At one point, on one of the rare occasions she had actually been facing in the right direction, she completely severed the rope holding the poor pinata horse.  Kirk ran in ducking and got her disarmed, and a crew came in to tie it back up to the rafter beam.  Mel was warmed up now, and the crowd backed up a little as Kirk lowered the blindfold,  pointed her more or less in the right direction, then got the hell out of the way. After a few monster swipes into space she got turned around and chased the crowd clear out the other end of the stable before swinging her way back towards the pinata. Josh, Roz and Jared were getting ready to unplug and make a run for it . There was a flurry of wood splinters and chips flying, light bulbs going out and people screamed for their lives, until finally by chance she connected a great hay maker to the nervously swinging pinata pony. Pow! The crowd howled and there was a scramble for the candies that exploded and went everywhere.  The madness carried on until the wee hours and things started to wind down and the fire pit out front burnt low. I backed my truck in and proceeded to break everything down and piled in the back for the trip back to the bush.
   Between sets all evening, old Frontman had been no stranger to the beer cooler out at the fire pit and was in obvious need of a ride home, and possibly even a little help up his steps too.
"Thanksh for coming man." he says when I drop him off, "Drive shafe".
He'll go back for his 4x4, amp and guitar in the afternoon, when he recalls where he left it.
   About 2 am I stopped at the Petrocan for gas and mix up a coffee for the long trip home. While there I chatted with the huge night shift taxi driver I've known for years, and told him where I had been playing.
"Oh ya!", booms Littleboy, "I got all kinds of trips out of there tonight!".
    The drive home I've done a thousand times before feels like. I won't see another vehicle once I leave Pemberton. Late at night like this after a gig, driving slow with my gear aboard I sort of zone out and it goes by not so bad. I always make sure I have good boots along, just in case I need to walk the last 10 miles or something some night.   I was afraid of one thing... rain.  All the PA equipment was uncovered in back, along with my prized Gretsch custom drums.  So sure as hell, just when I think I have it made it begins to rain way back there around the 36 km marker. It starts to really come down when I cross Rogers Creek, and just after 4 am I pulled into the lit up yard here at the Lodge. I swung around back to park under cover  and there is this great big embarrassed looking bear standing there, all soaking wet and dripping.  He has nabbed himself a bag of recyclables and was standing there wondering what to do with it when I wheel in and surprise him in the headlights. He stares at me for a moment then takes the bag and runs off, stomping on it with his hind foot and leaving a trail of cans, bottles and detergent jugs across the yard and off into the dark, wet woods.
But I was home safe, and pulled off one more adventure to play someplace, despite much adversity. It turns out forgetting the foot pedal behind actually saved my butt, as the van never would have made the round trip there and back.
I wonder if Charlie Watts has to chase bears off his lawn when he returns from gigs?

Two Decades.

         There was an important milestone around here a couple days back, twenty years ago I arrived out here and the hot spring property has been my home ever since...so far. Previous to that I had probably visited the hot spring 6 or 8 occasions in my life since I was just a young lad.
I went out to the shop loft and brought down a old box marked "Journals", blowing the dust off it I opened it up and searched for the one with 1994 on the spine...
   I had made two trips just prior to arriving here for good. A month back I had been in from the Pemberton end and parked an 18 foot travel trailer at the hot spring, then a few weeks later drove up the West Harrison goat trail from the south to see if I could get through that route with a large Hayes 6x6 crane truck for log building. I found out soon enough  it was not going to be possible but I spent an interesting weekend at the hot springs. The trailer was there and had already been broken into, it was messed up inside and a few little things missing. There was mostly shovels and rakes and things for working around the hot spring and some camping gear stored in there. I  got it cleaned up and organised and the gear set up for cooking over the fire. The weather was sunny and almost hot.
Meeting that first weekend crowd of campers was an education, I thought to myself, "Well, this is going to an  interesting deal..."
   A week or two later I loaded up and headed back to the springs. I started off from the lower mainland earlier in the day and had my poor short wheelbase pickup grossly overloaded with second hand lumber I had spent the previous day pulling bent nails out of, and most anything I figured I might need for the first week or two. I have such a load on the vehicle is weaving on the road and I'm slowing way down on the corners. Anyone who has driven on the old Sea To Sky highway in those days can imagine the line of nasty traffic I had built up on my tail. The box was piled high with lumber and adorned with camping gear, fuel cans and a kitchen sink. To the line of traffic behind I must have looked like some hillbilly swerving down the road.  I stopped in the village of Pemberton for groceries, fuel, and ice, and was in for an introductory case of sticker shock.
   It was a slow drive once I hit the gravel road at the head of Lillooett Lake. The day had been rather dark and dreary with scattered showers. I started down the lake road about dinner time, and pulled into the T'sek campsite at 8 that evening. Under the power line before the entrance road sat a Caterpillar D7 bulldozer. The low bed from Boston Bar had unloaded it there mid afternoon. There had been some root rotted big firs and wind blow down on the property, a section had been logged a year or so previous, the cat was rented to remove stumps and move them to a pile for burning and smooth things out.
   I drove slowly into hot spring campsite, it was just getting dusk, and there was no one else there. I pulled up to the little travel trailer parked front and center. Of course it had been broken into again, but one thing I've learned out here is no one steals garden tools. I got a fire going and set up my adjustable over the fire cooking grate. I sat around the fire after dinner and laughed and joked for awhile with myself before going down and climbing into a tub of the most wonderful, soothing, thermal water.
   In the morning I would unload the lumber and plywood and begin the first job of building a tent frame and cover it with tarps stapled on. It would be used for storage and a couple cots in there for guests. At the time I had zero carpentry skills, and day two into my tent frame fiasco some locals arrived in a converted school bus. They were curious about this character setting up camp at the hot spring and had to come over and have a chat. They had a good laugh over my haywire efforts at putting up a simple tent frame. The driver, Larry Cosluich, was a carpenter up in Pemberton, "Your going about it all wrong" he said, trying to hold a straight face, then went and got his tools that happened to be in the bus, including some strange thing called a 'square'.. The tent frame served several months duty before I chained it to the back of my pickup and skidded it down the road and set up camp at the cleared other end of the property that August, almost on the spot I sit at now.
   Funny, when I sat in the hot tubs that 'first' night, I really didn't look ahead as far a 20 years, thinking I would still be here. There was so much to do I didn't think much further than that. There was some plans for a small scale hydro electric system, some fruit trees, and a small 'fishing' cabin built from some cedar poles that were around, but not too much beyond that.
   Who would have figured 20 years later, I'd still be sitting around, comfortable in my shop, the laptop connected to my satellite by wireless, and writing on a .com site sent out worldwide and read by upwards of 100 people a day. And my carpentry skills have improved plenty!
   Over the years I've seen thousands of people come out and enjoy the area, but they always had to go home again. I was the lucky guy that always got to stay. Me and my first nation neighbors out here, I've always said we must be the luckiest people on earth to live in such a wonderful territory.

Adventure In The Far Away Mountains

One day in 1964...

   Spring had come early here in the Far Away Mountains, the land of wild hairy beasts, and brave hairy men. I had led my small party into this wild new frontier by way of the Dead Dog Trail, paddling the whitewater of the raging Hitchikatchee River, and beyond into the land not yet marked on maps. We pressed onwards, into Polecat Pass, where eyes watched our every move, and negotiated the mossy overhangs and vines of Cave Ape Mountain.
   A whiskered, barrel chested mountain man of legend in these parts, I had embarked on this difficult journey in search of treasure. Gold...and stuff. Accompanying me on this dangerous quest are my two sidekicks, Lowland Larry and Whipsaw Walter,  my woman, the lovely and mysterious Rita, and last but not least, my wolf dog, Whodat. Though not quite as barrel chested and whiskered as myself, Lowland Larry, and Whipsaw Walter have proven to be good trail companions.  I had saved their lives once...of course. I remember it was back in '61, sneaking through the Valley Of The Bones one night to avoid waking the cave apes. Lucky for them, Whodat was able to direct me to the tar pit they were trapped in, we just got them out of there before the volcano went up. 

    The three of us have had some wild times around old Fort Buckaroo too. Like that time I had to wrastle that one-eyed old grizzle bear outside the Raccoon Saloon, back in '62 I think it was. That bear will think twice about coming into town again, by himself anyways. My woman, the lovely and mysterious Rita, served sarsaparilla's and played hontytonk accordion back at the ol' Raccoon and had hopelessly fallen for the tall handsome stranger from the border country that would wrestle belligerent Old One Eye on a dare. My highly trained wolf dog has been by my side since I rescued her from a den in an eroding river bank during the big flood of '57.  The Wolf Dog's legend grew quickly, the mountain natives giving her the name Whodat. Translated from the local Higoochie dialect it means roughly, 'wanderer of neighborhood and partaker of neighbors garbage cans'.

   Safe passage to the country on the other side of Headless Kid Pass was granted by the chief of the remote Higoochie tribe. The Higoochies guarded the pass and had only recently stopped boiling mountain men in large black pots. My party had been granted access to the rich land beyond after I saved the entire band during the great gopher famine back in February.
   Our journey had been a trying one, four years duration it was, and it was Winter for three of those years. It had been uphill all the way from Fort Buckaroo, and it will be uphill all the way back as well, at least until we lower ourselves up the other side of craggy Backward Mountain.
   It had been a productive day discovering gold mines and hot pools.  My woman, the lovely and mysterious Rita, sits with adoring eyes for her rugged, whiskered mountain man, mending my buckskin jacket after that run in I had with the sabre tooth mountain lion last night.
Lowland Larry and Whipsaw Walter are by the fire roasting fresh wieners caught today and laugh heartily while I regale them with tales of past escapades from the olden times, back before unexplored country got civilised like it is nowadays.  Back when a man had to eat snow all Winter. And it was dark all the time. I leaned back against my pack board, took in the fresh air of the remote mountaintop and contemplated the view.
   My keen mountain man senses picked up a pending danger, a long legged, stalking, presence...and suddenly, 'WHACK!", just like that, a pointer smashed down not inches from me. I straightened up in my desk with a start, and turned my head from the view out the window to the staring faces and giggles of the entire grade three and four classroom. The teacher, Mrs. Crowley, or Old Crow Legs as some of the older boys called her, which I always thought was funny as hell, stood there tapping her wooden pointer on her hand. This pointer got used for many tasks I had found out on past expeditions, like rapping the desks of inattentive 10 year old, hairy and barrel chested mountain men.

Old Crow Legs started in once more,"Robin, if you don't pay attention, how do you expect to keep up?" 

Well that wasn't the first time I had been asked that by an exasperated teacher, and it wasn't the last.

My buddy Larry sat over in the the next grade and I can see him trying hard to stifle a laugh, he looks much different now without his beard. As does Walter who sits ahead a row, he is looking straight ahead, hoping to avoid getting in trouble by association.
Over a few rows, at the front of the grade four class, Rita stares at me over her shoulder, her gaze one of disgust, then shakes her head and rolls her eyes before turning back to her notebook.
"She looked at me...." I thought to myself, blushing, "...she looked at me!"
 Old Crow Legs brought me back to earth, "Now class, including you Mr. Trethewey, please pick up where we left off...".

   My friend Larry lived on a small farm down on the flats where his folks ran a few milk cows, and Walter lived down across the tracks close to the border crossing. Together on our bikes, along with  my hopeless dog Whodat, had the type of adventures only rural kids and dogs can have. We started school together, and used to be in the same class, ...but they don't get held back.

The old Huntington Elementary School sat out in the farmland that straddled the Canadian side of the 49th parallel near Sumas, and served the needs of the eighty or so rural hick kids in the immediate area. Grades one thru seven, three classrooms with three teachers, the school had been built in 1919 and used sawdust in the walls for insulation.  Its one redeeming feature was that the windows were predominately to the north, and to the chagrin of a generation of teachers, I would transport myself away to adventures in the far off range of mountains that rose beyond the Fraser Valley. 

Although it didn't improve my grades any, it sure helped pass the time.
Over the years I have thought lots about that old schoolhouse, and not without a certain fondness, but oh how I hated to be there. I looked out school windows until I was old enough to graduate myself, then my real education began. From where I sit here and write this, 50 years later, I can see a high mountain. If I were to go up there with a telescope, I could look south, and on a clear day, with a bit of imagination, I could almost make out the remains of that old schoolhouse in the far away.

A Failed Excursion To The High Country.

   There was one of the last frosts of the season this morning.

The days warm up and this residual snow is not going to stick around for long. I thought it might be a good day to ride up the mountain, provided I could get an early start and drive on top of the crust before the sun gets to it. Well I fooled around on the computer and read some news and sent an email or two before getting myself organised.

 I dug around in the cupboard for a pocketful of mountain survival food before going out and warming up the Honda.

 The snow down in the valley bottom disappears in great patches every day now.

 I thought I should take a quick run down to the hot spring before heading up, and snuck in the back way.

After fooling around with a buggered water tap for a while I finally hit the trail for the high country.

The sun had softened the surface on some areas and I was having a hell of a time, this is the first time I came to a stand still. I managed to take a few more runs at it over to the right in a shady area and carried on my way.

 I got bogged down and figured I was buggered a few more times but managed to keep trying and finally get moving again. I suppose anyone with any brains would have turned around about now.

Finally, after crossing Sparrow Creek I got bogged down for the final time, stepped off the steaming machine to assess the situation, and dug into the survival ration gummy bears.

I suppose anyone with any brains would have brought a shovel along. 

I shed the warm layer as soon as the hard work started.

After plenty of verbal encouragement I got the heavy @%$#*! pig turned around and pointed in the other direction, and by now the snow had softened enough it was taking full throttle just to keep moving downhill.

 The 1km marker at the top of Tombstone Hill.

Lower down I came across these cool cougar tracks.

Well I never made it up the mountain on the crust this Spring, so I will post some pictures from past successful ascents instead.

March 3rd Snow Event

   It started snowing a few days back.

And it kept it up until today there was 15".

The tractor was put to good use for a good part of the day.

I plowed the road into the hot spring, opened up the day use lot then made a pass around the campsite.

The hot spring has a certain charm in a fresh snowfall.

Any normal person would have climbed in right then.

I drove down to Sachteen and opened up the road for my neighbors over there.

This evening it has turned to rain, so there is going to be a big sloppy mess around here for awhile.