Up the Lake

4-8-2015

Up the Lake

Wayne J. Lutz

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 Wayne J. Lutz

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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* * * * *

To John...

my mentor for the wilderness,

who allowed me to discover the wonders of Powell River

* * * * *

The stories are true, and the characters are real.

Some details are adjusted to protect the guilty.

All of the mistakes rest solidly with the author.

* * * * *

About this edition:

Grammatical errors corrected

Books by Wayne J. Lutz

Coastal British Columbia Stories

Up the Lake

Up the Main

Up the Winter Trail

Up the Strait

Up the Airway

Farther Up the Lake

Farther Up the Main

Farther Up the Strait

Cabin Number 5

Off the Grid

Up the inlet

Beyond the Main

Science Fiction Titles

Echo of a Distant Planet

Inbound to Earth

When Galaxies Collide

Anomaly at Fortune Lake

Across the Galactic Sea

U.S. Pacific Northwest Series

Flying the Pacific Northwest

Paddling the Pacific Northwest

Contents

1 – Mount Mahony

2 – Boats and Planes

3 – Slash

4 – Up the Lake from the Shinglemill

5 – City-Folk

6 – Skookum

7 – Chippewa Bay Cabin Buster

8 – Critters

9 – Elephant Butt and Spitter

10 – Up the Main from Tin Hat

11 – Night Rescue

Center-of-Book Photos

12 – Theodosia

13 – Halcyon Days

14 – Off the Grid in Mr. Bathtub

15 – Never Saddle a Dead Horse

16 – Prideaux Haven

17 – Royal Canadian Mounted Police

18 – On the Hook

19 – Speed Bump

20 – Prawn Fisherman

21 – Talking to Myself

22 – Save That Nail

Epilogue – On the Phone

About the Author

Other Books by this Author

Chapter 1

Mount Mahony

December winds blow strong and gusty from the southeast, a favourite direction for the creation of shipwrecks on the chuck, and a time to hunker down and avoid temptations involving oceans or lakes. This will be a rare night, a sleep-over in town. I’m tempted to try the lower portion of the lake to see if it’s safe, but that would provide little indication of conditions farther north. Pilots call these temptations sucker holes. You see a break in the clouds and go for it, only to find the path blocked by severe weather, and then the path behind you slams shut.

The condo’s balcony door is cracked open – the living room is warm. The clanging of sailboat mast tackle broadcasts the wind velocity from the nearby harbour. Metallic quavering of the masts heralds strong winds tonight, and there’s no relief in sight. A wound up low-pressure system over the Queen Charlottes is deepening rather than moving. It draws air northward through the Strait of Georgia, directly over Powell River. Texada Island acts as a temporary buffer for the blast, only to refocus the winds through the Malaspina Strait, right outside my window. It’s too dark to see the sailboats in the harbour, but I hear their masts’ tinny clatter.

Sheets of rain pound against the balcony door, with a few drops forcing their way in through the narrow screen opening. The cold air swirls near the door, blowing extra energy into the roaring gas fireplace. This rain and wind is supposed to last for days, but forecasts this time of year are suspect. No one puts any faith in the weatherman’s prognosis for two more days of rain, followed by sunny breaks, followed by more rain and wind. We take whatever comes our way, and life is geared to go on for months like this without major interruption. The Sunshine Coast (Rain Coast) is weather resistant rather than weather repellent. Everyone accepts the rain and wind, and just digs in.

Winter, with its short rainy days, is so different from the summer’s nearly continuous sunshine and twilight (punctuated by downpours). The term snowbird is appropriate here, although snow only occasional comes to this moderate coastal marine climate. It’s rain rather than snow that dominates the winter, but the nearly constant clouds and darkness are what drive the locals to the south. These rainbirds travel widely during all months of the year, but the winter is when they go south to find the sun. Part of this extensive travel is induced by the island-like nature of Powell River. On roads, you can’t drive more than 25 miles in any direction before you hit the end of the pavement. And there’s really only one main road. Island fever, coupled with the gray overcast of the rainy season, generates locals who are automatically geared up to leave in the winter.

Children growing up here gravitate into two categories: those who are planning their permanent escape as soon as they are able; and those who want to stay forever. They either hate it or they love it. There are few who fall in between.

In the winter, the rainbirds’ focus for travel is Arizona and California. One of my favourite winter flight destinations from my home near Los Angeles is Phoenix. The flight takes me over stark desert terrain, and there’s a particular winter spot that attracts hundreds of travel trailers in the middle of nowhere, grouped in wide circles like wagon trains. I gaze down on this bleak environment from my Piper Arrow, imagining that these are locals from Powell River, living their winter dream – day after day of Arizona sunshine.

I’m stunned to learn that a popular garden-spot of retirement for Powell River residents is Hemet, California. This desert community, registering consistent summer temperatures of over 35 degrees C for weeks on end, isn’t exactly my idea of paradise.

I used to plan a winter trip each year to a cold destination. Now, Powell River is my winter choice. Living in southern California, it’s always fun to have a bit of snow for the holidays. One year it was Denver, another year Salt Lake City, then Edmonton.

The visit to Edmonton was particularly memorable. There are few places more consistently cold and desolate than Edmonton in the winter. The frigid winds whip across the Alberta prairie, chilling the region to daytime highs of minus 20 C. I’ve never been so cold in my life, including a two-week winter military deployment in Alaska.

On this Edmonton trip, I ran into some local residents who were, ironically, en route to Anchorage to warm up. I also watched a fellow at the international airport run to an airline counter, hold out his wallet, and yell: Give me a ticket to Hawaii! The Edmonton to Honolulu route must be particularly popular.

When I arrived at the airport in the dark (there’s little distinction between day and night in December), the line for customs inspections was short. In fact, my wife, Margy, and I were the customs inspector’s only arriving non-Canadian passengers. When he asked the purpose of our travel, I replied: Vacation. The customs inspector gave us a suspicious look, laughed, and stamped us through.

* * * * *

As I listen to the clanging sailboat hardware, I scrutinize the Canadian Tire ads, reviewing again the discount special on snowshoes and poles. It seems like a fine bargain, but my Powell River wilderness mentor, John, has said that I really don’t want to go snowshoeing. Since he seldom misinterprets my real desires (although they often conflict with what I think I want), it’s reason to take pause at the advertisement. Maybe this is just like my bout with trolling.

I was convinced that trolling for salmon was something that would thrill me, but John said I’d be totally bored by it. I explained that trolling was perfect for me – kicked back and eating lunch, waiting for the big strike. I often fish on Powell Lake for hours, casting and reeling in, without catching a thing. Yet I’m never bored with casting – fish or no fish.

The ocean’s salmon catch has plummeted dramatically in recent decades. The days of fish-after-fish are gone, but a recreational fisherman with patience can still catch a big one. I ask John lots of questions about salmon trolling, window-shopped for rod holders, downriggers, and flashers, and finally take the plunge.

One summer afternoon, we enter the north end of Waddington Channel (prime salmon hunting grounds), all decked out and ready to go. I throw out my lure and flasher and let out lots of line. John guides the boat, all so slow and peaceful. The Yamaha four-stroke is the quietest, sweetest engine at any speed. At severe-slow it makes the summer breeze almost audible.

On this perfect day, I pick up my sandwich and settle into my deck chair, basking in the sun. At this slow speed, I can feel the penetration of the sun’s rays, but it’s not too hot to mar the moment. Conditions are superb, and I’m finally trolling. John settles into the other deck chair, periodically reaching forward to tap the steering wheel. We sit contentedly munching on our sandwiches, while the rod holders do all of the work. Nothing happens. We continue southbound, ever so slowly, and there’s constant nothingness. John is right – this is boring. By the time we reach the mouth of Roscoe Bay, I’ve had it. John is right, again.

But snowshoeing, if nothing else, is an experience I want to at least try. Yes, it will be a lot of work, trudging through the snow. Yes, it’ll be difficult to find the right conditions – this isn’t exactly the Canadian Rockies. These rains are bringing snow to the high country, and there will be places nearby with tons of snow. How to get to those spots is a separate problem.

Modern snowshoes are cool looking. I purchase the deluxe kit that comes with adjustable poles and a CD-ROM explaining how to size the shoes to my boots and how to walk in powder. Since I have no computer on this visit to Powell River (and not even TV), the CD is never viewed. I try on the snowshoes and walk around awkwardly in the condo living room, chewing up the carpet with a terrible crunching noise from the crampons.

Margy purchases a similar set, and John has an older pair of snowshoes with more classic lines. His enthusiasm for the outing is limited, but he humours me. Do I realize how hot I’m going to get under several layers of clothing, raising each leg high out of the snow on a mountain slope? There’s nothing like being drenched in sweat in the freezing cold.

John likes to explore in the cold, using his quad to blaze new trails or simply pushing the limits of his pickup truck during a climb up Mount Mahony. In fact, he has been going up Mount Mahony with his nephew every evening for the past week. They leave late in the afternoon in John’s truck, and come back down after dark (another challenge). What they do for hours on Mount Mahony in winter is beyond me, but they keep repeating it every day that there’s snow. Once John finds a place he likes, he absorbs it in regular doses.

Roads to snowshoe country are impossible in my gutless car, and even John’s truck is challenged by the climb. When the sky clears in Powell River, you can see the snowpack all around, but you can’t get to it. Mount Mahony is the exception. The dirt road, only a few miles outside town, climbs steeply. We begin the climb on Christmas Day. Maybe this will be a new holiday tradition.

The cab of John’s truck is crowded. Margy straddles the floor’s stick shift, John’s dog, Bro, claims the adjacent part of the seat, and I’m plastered against the door. With our multiple-layers of clothing, it’s a tight fit. As we begin the upward trek, the climb is in the rain, but it changes to wet snow within a few miles. The tires start to slip and slide, and John loves playing with the truck in these conditions. The ditches along the side of the road are deep and now disguised by snow.

As we climb higher, thick branches and an occasional small tree block the road, fallen under the weight of the heavy canopy of snow. John stops to chainsaw our way through. He’s been through this road the night before, but already it’s nearly impassible.

We find a spot where the road temporarily widens, and we stop to install the tire chains. This is a cold and sweaty process, as well as a dirty mess. The rusty chains stain my new gloves, so now my gloves are wet, cold, and dirty. But we’re going snowshoeing!

The rest of the climb is through rapidly deepening snow. It’s coming down hard now, giant white flakes – a beautiful sight. The increasingly slippery road tests John’s driving skills. Tire chains, four-wheel drive, and an expert trailblazer can only accomplish so much. We stop several times to clear more branches with the chainsaw, but stopping on these slippery slopes is tricky. Getting started again is even trickier.

Finally, we can go no more. The truck’s tires spin and spin, and the vehicle slips backward at an awkward angle. John maneuvers to the side of the narrow road, onto the edge of a snow-covered ditch that we could never get out of in these conditions. He expects that others might try to drive as high as we have today, and he wants the roadway clear for them to pass. Who else would attempt this mountain under these conditions? Answer: Maybe one of John’s friends.

The snow on the road is eight inches deep, reduced well below the level of the accumulation in the adjacent woods by trucks like John’s over the past few days. This is the minimum snow depth for snowshoes. The truth is that regular hiking boots would work better in these conditions. In the adjacent woods, the snow is several feet deep, but pushing through the bushes is an almost impossible task, so we stay on the road and begin to climb.

Within only a hundred metres, I’m panting and sweating. It’s a major effort to lift my leg high, clear the snow pack, push the snowshoe forward, and set it back down. John propels himself forward smoothly on his older-style snowshoes with bear-trap bindings and no poles. I struggle for forward momentum, and without my poles, I would be immobile. Margy is falling behind, puffing and panting, but refusing to give up. Bro romps playfully out in front of us, hopping off the road periodically to pursue some imagined critter. He plays and barks, and we struggle and sweat.

There’s a trail to our right, barely visible from the road. It’s entirely covered by snow and blends into the terrain, but John knows it well. It takes us across a deep trench that Margy and I struggle to climb. We can only maneuver upward on the other side by turning sideways and digging our crampons into the slope. The snow is several feet deep, and it’s here that snowshoes are the only way to get through. The going is tough, but I’m pleased that we have a taste of real snowshoeing for the moment.

John points to a tree ahead, just off to our left. See the boots? he asks. What boots? I hardly see the tree in the near white-out of the falling snow. But John’s eagle-eyes see something, so I stare at the tree as we continue to lift our snowshoes and plod ahead.

Boots in the snow? I ask.

No, in the tree. About thirty feet up.

Sure enough, there on the lowest branch of a huge fir, two black boots hang from their laces. One of the boot’s soles is barely connected, dangling below at a twisted angle.

What in the world are they doing way up there? I ask.

It must be some kind of a joke. Who would climb that high in a tree and hang a pair of old boots?

Lumberjack, answers John. He just wore them ’til they gave out. Probably considered it a fitting memorial to his logging boots.

The trail continues for about a hundred metres, and ends at a clearing with a single large fallen log. We brush snow off the toppled fir, and sit to eat our lunch. I’m wearing a pair of wool mittens over my gloves, and my fingers are still cold. I remove both layers to get at my sandwich.

John is right, and he’s wrong. This has been a lot of hard, sweaty work, and snowshoeing isn’t a process of gliding over sun-drenched snowy fields. But this place is like no other. Only those with an intense desire can get here today. Huge flakes of snow fall all around us, with the tops of the clouds so close that sunlight beams through in patches. And I’ve never tasted a more delicious roast beef sandwich.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Chapter 2

Boats and Planes

In recent years, summer vacation destinations were not decided until airborne over DIGGN Intersection, an offshore location forty miles northwest of Seattle and about fifty miles south of the San Juan Islands. The summer adventure always begins on Victor 27, the scenic aeronautical route along the Pacific Coast. You jump on V27 near Santa Barbara and follow it all the way to Astoria, Oregon. Then it’s a short jog inland to Olympia, and nearly straight north to DIGGN. That keeps you out of the busy airspace surrounding Seattle.

My wife and I are so familiar with this route that we were upset one summer when we noticed that LOFAL, an intersection in the Seattle area, had been removed from the charts. How could poor old LOFAL be evicted from the area? Pilots are familiar with the intersections they fly over regularly, sometimes becoming attached to these electronic locations like old friends.

During the summer, V27 is one of the most stable weather routes in the world, with low clouds and sometimes a little drizzle along the coast, but seldom a major storm. Turbulence and thunderstorms are almost unheard of this time of year along the Pacific Coast. Victor 27 is best equated to Route 101, the coastal scenic highway. Autopilots enjoy this path too – set V27 in the satellite nav receiver and forget it, but do stay alert and fully awake.

When Margy and I cross DIGGN in our Piper Arrow, the decision has to be resolved. It’s farther north to Abbotsford to clear customs, and then into the interior of British Columbia, or hang a slight left toward JAWBN Intersection, less than ten miles from DIGGN. Then you’re headed toward Victoria, Vancouver Island, and the Sunshine Coast. It’s a choice we’ve debated every summer, but there seem to be no bad decisions.

In recent years, but prior to discovering Powell River, we chose the JAWBN route for quiet camping vacations on Vancouver Island. One year it was Port Hardy, with a rental car that took us to great camping spots near the tip of Vancouver Island. The next year, Margy and I opted for some variety at the end of our summer schedule, flying from Port Hardy to Powell River. It was merely something different to do, rather than a conscious decision to visit Powell River. The runways on the Sunshine Coast are relatively short, and our Piper Arrow, loaded as a summer RV, can only handle two airstrips here: Powell River and Texada Island’s airport (a regular camping spot for us). The runway at Sechelt (I pronounced it Schlect for several years before a polite Canadian corrected me) is a bit short for our takeoff performance in the thin, hot air of summer. So there really was no choice.

A tourist guidebook notes that camping spaces are limited in Powell River. We later learn that this is no big deal with so few campers in the area. But Willingdon Beach sounds nice, if not full, with the big plus of being within walking distance to town.

So we head toward the ugly paper mill smokestack at Powell River, reminding us of a visit to the