The difference between weather in eastern and western Canada was never more evident than in my choice of clothing for a weekend outing. I pulled on long johns and tucked them into my homemade ‘Nan Tucker’ knitted socks, preparing for my first winter’s excursion on a snowmobile to cabin country. I packed a knapsack with extra-warm clothes, first-aid kit, and a digital camera.
In March 1969, our church youth group chartered a bus to Cultus Lake, British Columbia. I packed an overnight bag with a swimsuit and towel, transistor radio, hairbrush and a Brownie camera for a weekend at the beach.
The trip took us an hour east of Vancouver towards Chilliwack. Along the Trans Canada highway we passed dairy farms with cattle standing along the fence-lines swishing their tails and chewing their cuds. Raspberry and strawberry farms with their gridline-pattern rows ran as far as the eye could see, holding out the promise of a harvest of fresh fruit. Mennonite farmers waved as they stood in the middle of fields of glorious yellow daffodils. Gradually the farmland gave way to fir-covered hills, and then the hills slid into the background and the mountains reared up, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as we followed the highway to our destination.
At the lake, sun gleamed off the water as we scrambled off the bus and changed into swimsuits. The soft spring air and the clear, cold water were thrilling. We picnicked by the campfire and sang songs and imagined the legendary ‘Bigfoot’ coming down from the mountains to the campsite. Cabins, framed by a brilliant riot of daffodils and tulips, stood back from the beach, while playgrounds on lush green lawns were alive with the shouts of children.
Cultus Lake was no stranger to visitors, and fishermen came from afar to fish for Rainbow Trout and Sockeye Salmon. The Cultus Lake sockeye salmon is an anadromous fish—that is, a fish that lives part of its life in fresh water before migrating to the sea. That day, I watched fisherman casting their lines, waiting for fish to bite. I listened to their laughter floating across the water as they traded fish tales.
Now, forty years later, the Newfoundland landscape lay concealed beneath a heavy blanket of snow as a shower of snowflakes fell like eider-duck feathers from the sky. I followed Route 430 west and found the rendezvous site on the side of the road. Within minutes I was pulling a heavy helmet over my head and hoisted myself onto the back of a snowmobile, hanging on for dear life and bouncing over the barrens; amazed that there were traffic signs on the trails in the middle of the wilderness.
At Stock Pond, we pulled up to ‘Da Tilt’, a cabin owned by Carl and Millicent Tucker, in the center of a magical wood of moss-hung trees and snow-laden branches. As he got off the snowmobile, Carl asserted, “I think it’s time for tea!” Millicent greeted us at the door and, as we took off helmets, mittens, scarves, caps, coats and boots, put a kettle on the cast-iron stove to boil. In the kitchen, we drank scalding tea and nibbled on buttered buns, watching a grey jay tilt his head and peer through the window, begging for morsels of bread.
After tea, Millicent brought forth a platter of fisherman’s brewis and, while we ate, Carl told stories of fish and fishermen, dog teams, seals on ice, and life on the Northern Peninsula when he was a young man.
After lunch we piled onto snowmobiles and headed to Pistolet Bay to go smelting. Alyssa, Carl and Millicent’s granddaughter, and Len, lowered their hooks into the icy water. Alyssa pulled up smelt after smelt, while Len only managed one rock cod, which came up with jaws flapping. “You can’t have that one, Len,” advised Carl, pulling out the hook and forcing the foot-long cod back down through the ice. A group of snowmobilers dropped by and one feller in a space-age helmet, noticing Len’s lack of success, insisted on showing Len the way it’s done by hauling in three smelts in the space of a minute.
Back at the cabin, we warmed our toes by the wood stove as other cabin-dwellers and snowmobilers dropped by to visit.
Looking back, I’d say that whether we pack an overnight bag with swimsuit and towel, or long johns and worsted socks, there is something in all of us that yearns to get back to the land; back to simpler ways.