the crews that worked to put wood in the water.
No caulks beyond this point was the ubiquitous message in camp.2 The sign was at every entrance to every building. It was especially prominent at the entrance to the kitchen and mess hall.
Across the compound was a recreation room where the loggers went to unwind after dinner. The door was ajar. I could spot several sets of eyes checking us out from within.
While we were unloading gear from our trucks, a group of loggers assembled on the mess hall porch. Judging by the sour expressions, this wasn’t a welcoming committee. They didn’t seem too thrilled about strangers rolling into their camp. I suppose they decided that we didn’t pose much of a threat, though. They soon lost interest and went back to their meals.
Our late arrival left us with limited daylight. We needed to hike our gear to the creek and set up our camp before nightfall. Wafting across the compound from the kitchen was the wonderful aroma of dinner. Hot food would be waiting for us the moment we got ourselves squared away.
The trail that led to our camping area cut through a thick patch of conifers for the first two hundred metres, then dropped down to a sandy flat where it wound through another two hundred metres of thick salmonberry, terminating at a sandy ledge at the edge of a creek.
The creek was at its seasonal low, exposing a five-metre-wide swath of dry creek bed, checkerboarded by round alluvial stones rendered smooth and slick from fast-running water. The creek just beyond ran shallow but steady. On one side, a large boulder field interrupted its flow, creating deep shimmering pools beyond, and on the other, a sublime sight: the exposed creek bed transitioned into a long, soft carpet of grey, talc-like sand—a narrow swath at first, swelling out into a vast expanse some five hundred metres long and up to fifty metres wide.
Tall timber flanked the beach on the upper fringe, accentuated by cedar, balsam and hemlock. The creek defined the lower boundary, its flow occasionally disrupted by large protruding boulders, inducing sloshes and churns that reverberated throughout the corridor.
Beyond the boulder field on the other side of the creek, the terrain then sloped upward, gradually increasing in grade, the heavy brush giving way to towering cedars with smaller maples interspersed between them. It was an ominous backdrop. This was real wilderness. One had to wonder what lurked along those higher reaches.
The beach offered numerous possibilities for individual campsites, everything from compacted waterfront benches to private alcoves tucked in along the forest edge. Preferring privacy, I claimed a spot at the very far end of the corridor. It was a long walk to the trailhead that led back to the logging camp, but the spot was wonderfully secluded.
After an hour of dragging gear, levelling sand, and pounding tent pegs, we raised an impressive little tent village. One dozen nylon structures of every shape, colour and size extended some five hundred metres from one end of the corridor to the other. My contribution to the neighbourhood: a two-man pup tent with an orange shell and a bright blue tarp fashioned as a rainfly.
By then, the sun was in full retreat. Barrett calling us to dinner was music to my ears. With our tents pitched, our gear organized for the next morning and flashlights in hand, we made our way back up the trail to the dining hall.
The mess hall was set up like a cafeteria. At supper, the entire meal was laid out buffet style—all you could eat and then some. In the morning, there was an assortment of breakfast entrees, also laid out buffet style, but you could have your eggs made to order. We were responsible for bagging our own lunches, and there was a separate room where lunch items were laid out each morning.
A very generous dinner spread was set out for us that first night, and as we filled our faces, Barrett gave us a quick rundown of the house rules, which facilities were open to us and which were strictly off limits. Aside from the dining hall, we were granted access to a vacant unit at the far end of the camp. It had a bathroom, several shower stalls and a good-sized dry room in the event the sky opened up on us. The recreation hall—where the loggers gathered to blow off steam after dinner—was a big question mark. Access would be decided by the loggers and would be by invitation only. I was intrigued by that little detail.
I slept extremely well in my tiny pup tent on the beach that first night. Soothed by the sound of running water and an occasional breeze caressing the canopy of conifer limbs above, I was instantly lulled and transported into dreamland. Nothing could have shaken me out of my slumber that first night.
It was pre-dawn when I emerged from my tent the next morning. Feeling better than I had in days, excited at the prospect of hitting the slopes, I headed off in the direction of the logging camp, eager to get a jump on my day. Along the trail, I heard a dog barking in the distance. It wasn’t a normal bark. It sounded anxious, strained. I remember wondering if it was Lady, and what it was that had her so agitated, so early in the morning.
I wasn’t prepared for the reception I received when I stepped into the mess hall that first morning. Three dozen loggers, all in the final stages of polishing off their breakfasts, stopped in mid-chew and stared me down. Bulletproof faces. Row upon row of them. Not a smile or friendly gesture among them. This hostility was par for the course in many ways. These men were working in one of the most geographically isolated areas on the planet. They weren’t used to outsiders coming in, violating their space, sitting at their tables, eating their food. Tread lightly, I thought. I made a beeline for the safety of the lunchroom around the corner.
The lunch spread that greeted me caused my jaw to slacken. It had every variety of cold cut you could imagine, along with supper leftovers, a dozen different types of cheeses, every conceivable type of condiment and sandwich topping, and of course, a respectable collection of bread and rolls. But what really floored me was the area devoted entirely to desserts. Those items occupied twice as much table space as all the other lunch items combined. There were apple, strawberry, rhubarb, cherry and blueberry pies. A variety of lavishly iced cakes occupied the shelf above. Cookies, tarts, turnovers, brownies, fruit squares, Nanaimo bars, eclairs, Danishes and doughnuts. It was total madness.
Back at the dining area I spotted Kelly, my foreman, setting a plate of bacon and eggs on one of the tables that were made available to us. Kelly was an intense fellow, but it was a palatable intensity. He had the biggest, roundest blue eyes I had ever seen. The rest of his facial features were obscured by a thick black beard that merged with his straight, bowl cut. Kelly always seemed to have a knowing grin on his face, as if he were able to read your deepest thoughts.
As I approached his table to bid him good morning, he looked up and asked, “You didn’t think to bring a rifle along, did ya?” Before I could respond, the mess hall door flew open and Ricky and Zach barged in, deeply engaged in conversation, oblivious to the disapproving glares from the locals. It then occurred to me why Lady had been barking so anxiously earlier on, and why Kelly would ask such an odd question. From that point on, our mess hall conversations were dominated by the talk of bears. Grizzly bears.
The drive to our first cutblock was a short hop from the logging camp. Along the way, Ricky and Zach described spotting a bear on the other side of the creek at roughly 4:30 a.m. It emerged within fifty or sixty metres of their campsite (their tents were close to the trailhead). It was fairly dark at that early hour, but from what little they could see, they estimated it was a large animal. Lady was the first to detect it, picking up its scent from inside Ricky’s tent. When Ricky turned her loose, she immediately bolted to edge of the creek to challenge it. When the bear was slow to retreat, Lady crossed over and gave chase. The confrontation lasted well over an hour. The barking I’d heard on my way to breakfast was apparently the tail end of that episode. This got me thinking about my preference for privacy at the far end of the corridor.
Our focus soon shifted to planting. Being the first out of the truck
