Paul St. Pierre story on the Chilcotin in today's Vancouver Sun

Mike Cleven ironmtn at BIGFOOT.COM
Tue Dec 5 22:43:22 UTC 2000


FYI folks: full story copyright the Vancouver Sun in today's issue;
tried to get a web URL but it doesn't show up in the location window
other than as www.vancouversun.com; so am quoting full at length below;
if you want to see the accompanying pictures you'll have to visit the
website directly.  There are a few uses of Chinook words here, as well
as mention that quite a few are still in use in the local parlance:

Paul St. Pierre:
                           The Past Frontier

                           CHILCOTIN: Folks on the plateau these
                           days have hydro, fast trucks, satellite TV
                           and the Internet. Then there's what they've
                           lost.

                           Paul St. Pierre Special to The Vancouver Sun
                           BIG CREEK - To
                           know the old
                           Chilcotin Country is
                           gone and is not going
                           to come back, drive
                           the old stage road
                           between Williams
                           Lake and Anahim
                           Lake on blacktop, the
                           car on cruise control
                           and two local radio
                           stations coming in
                           loud and clear.

                           You meet a truck
                           delivering bottled
                           water. Yuppiewater in
                           Chilcotin, land of the
                           wild and free rivers?
                           He's making a profit
                           selling it, otherwise
                           he wouldn't be here.

                           And over another
                           rise, confident his
                           radar detector won't
                           squeal, comes a
                           sporty Pontiac, driven
                           by a civil servant who
                           commutes between
                           Williams Lake and
                           Alexis Creek.
                           Commuting, to Alexis.

                           Well, well. Wasn't it
                           only the day before
                           yesterday that the
                           woman guest
                           complained at the log
                           cabin Chilcotin Hotel
                           that she had no night
                           light when the power
                           plant shut down at
                           midnight?

                           Sammy Barrowman,
                           the owner, who
                           boasted his hotel had
                           the only flush toilet
                           between Williams
                           Lake and Yokahama,
                           was severe with her.
                           "Madam, have you
                           any conception of
                           how far it is to the
                           next hotel?"

                           Not far now, Sammy.
                           Commuting distance.

                           In the days of the old dirt road, there
weren't many
                           vehicles of any kind. Red McCue's big
delivery truck
                           ("Get the Hill Out of My Way," said the
motto) was called
                           The Stage, for reasons unknown. There never
was a
                           stage coach on the plateau. When the
occasional
                           government inspector turned up with weigh
scales it was
                           the duty of any traveller to warn Red to dump
his
                           overload into the jackpines until he'd been
weighed.

                           At the start of Cariboo Flats, where the last
migrating
                           caribou band was shot out to zero in the
1940s, was an
                           emergency cabin for travellers. When you came
over
                           this road in winter at 40 below, which was
the
                           temperature that used to come here and stay,
a wise
                           driver checked his mileage gauge from one
house
                           lantern light to the next. You needed to
know, if the
                           vehicle quit, which was the shortest walk to
safety
                           because you could not walk far at 40 below.
The
                           emergency cabins served where the road ran
too long
                           between lantern lights.

                           Ike Singh, the Chinese Canadian with the East
Indian
                           name, often used them when trucking in to his
general
                           store in Anahim Lake. He'd bought the store
from Stan
                           Dowling who, in the '30s, brought the first
gas-powered
                           vehicle into Anahim, driving on wagon roads,
cattle trails
                           and frozen lakes, because no complete road
yet existed.

                           Lester Dorsey was then still running pack
trains
                           following the old Precipice Trail to the
saltchuck at Bella
                           Coola for the Hudson's Bay company. Like more
than
                           one man, he'd come up here on the run. He was
making
                           his horse rear at a country fair in
Washington when the
                           horse came down on a citizen's head.

                           Lester ran until he couldn't run farther.
Years later,
                           someone from his hometown found him and told
him
                           laughing, "The son of a bitch got up and
walked away,
                           Lester."

                           Now, policemen with radar on the road? There
was only
                           one, count one, policeman for the whole area,
which is
                           about a third the size of France.

                           At least half of the highway's shiny pickup
trucks are
                           now driven by Indians. Week before last,
wasn't it, they
                           rode saddle horse or moved in wagons drawn by
half
                           broke cayuses. It took them days, not a few
hours, to get
                           to Williams Lake Stampede from the western
side of the
                           plateau and days to get home again.

                           Those who got drunk, and everybody worth
while was
                           supposed to get drunk at Stampede time, were
thrown
                           into jail. Public drunkenness was then a
criminal offence.
                           The ranchers for whom they cowboyed would
phone the
                           police to locate their strays and request
that they be
                           turned loose on the promise that the rancher
would be in
                           town to post bail for them some time real
soon.

                           Today the Indians have big cab pickups,
hydro, TV,
                           Internet connections, handsome band
administration
                           offices and lots of city lawyers on their
payroll, some of
                           whom are themselves natives. Finally, they
have a
                           heaping great pile grievances and land
claims.

                           Instead of the occasional drunkup at Stampede
and
                           other occasions, there is now a lot of
continuous heavy
                           drinking which peaks on the day the welfare
cheques
                           arrive. The suicide rate is now well above
the national
                           average.

                           In the old days -- must we note one more time
that they
                           aren't really old? -- many of these people
had the
                           reputation "Good man in the bush, poor man in
town."
                           Although some might like to deny it now, the
whites
                           tended to treat them as second-class citizens
and a few
                           would say no native matured beyond age of 14.
                           However there were also deep and lifelong
friendships
                           across the racial lines and a lot of mutual
respect.

                           This raises the question of whether today's
First Nations
                           people, provided with schools, health
services and
                           limitless forms of counselling and aid, are
happier than
                           in the years when they got by, proudly but
thinly, by
                           cowboying, shooting squirrels and taking hay
contracts.
                           It takes a wiser man than me to answer that
question.

                           However the same question can be raised about
whites.
                           Throughout this nation, cities, towns and
villages are far
                           better places to live than they were half a
century ago. I
                           know no exceptions to that rule. But how many
                           communities are happier places today? Are
there any?

                           I am persuaded that the happiness of
societies does rise
                           and fall, but it does not do so in
synchronization with the
                           society's material prosperity. Man is an
economic animal
                           to only a limited extent and dollars can
never satisfy the
                           hungers of his soul.

                           Whatever the case, the evidence of material
prosperity
                           is everywhere in this country, which was once
the last
                           stand of the North American open range cattle
rancher,
                           driven here out of the settled places to the
high, cold
                           land at the northwestern edge of the
continent's
                           grasslands, still searching for the
independence he
                           never found.

                           Logging long ago replaced ranching as the
cash cow, it
                           is the driving force of the economy, in a
region which
                           never expected to see payrolls, regular work
hours, paid
                           holidays, sick time and unions.

                           The chattering classes hate the loggers,
ostensibly
                           because of clearcutting, in truth because
they are guilty
                           of making money and profits.

                           As for the clearcutting, that was always
nature's way
                           here in the Lodgepole Pine forests but in the
old days it
                           was fire, not tree snippers, that bared the
ground. Those
                           fires, sometimes, were set by ranchers intent
on opening
                           up new land to grass and cattle. The ranchers
hadn't
                           much use for loggers either, but in their
case it was for
                           the usual reason -- that they had failed to
become
                           ranchers.

                           The land is now in comfortable middle age,
fatter,
                           slower, even a bit stodgy, certainly much
less rich in
                           God's great gift of foolishness.

                           Now it has Internet, 200-channel TV antennas,
                           marijuana grow operations, both outdoors and
the
                           indoor kind and although no community is big
enough to
                           have a resident lawyer, two lawyers might
make a living
                           in one or two places.

                           And, of course, as elsewhere, once a place
has
                           blacktop, stop signs, plumbing inspectors and
grief
                           counsellors, lovers of the wilderness are
never far
                           behind. They come with their placards, their
strange
                           slogans and their irritating habit of telling
the locals that
                           they know not the harm they do the
environment or the
                           wickedness that is theirs.

                           They can claim as much right to be here as
anyone.
                           There is nothing wrong with mortgage payers,
pro- and
                           anti-abortionists or people who like
McDonald's
                           hamburgers. They have as much right to be
here as the
                           people before them, although one might wish
they hadn't
                           lost the priceless gift of being able to
laugh at
                           themselves.

                           A few traces of the past are to be found.
Many a ranch
                           house, well supplied with reliable B.C.
Hydro, keeps a
                           wood cook stove because the woman of the
house
                           insists on it. (However, no woman has yet
been sighted
                           who wants to return to the days before
refrigeration,
                           drying moosemeat -- "the Queen's beef" -- in
the sun to
                           make jerky.)

                           Men who meet after a few months apart still
ask the one
                           important question: "How'd ya winter?" How
you
                           wintered was a life and death affair. Also a
regular form
                           of greeting is "Tell me a good lie."

                           You will hear a gas siphon called a Chilcotin
Credit Card
                           and people will say that when a Chilcotin
woman has
                           twins there are three of them. Hiyu (many),
skookum
                           (strong), mesachie (bad), cultus (worthless)
and other
                           Chinook words spot conversations but all is
fading,
                           fading, fading fast in this land that once
occupied a
                           position just on the outer edge of
probability.

                           Those now called old timers must have been
among the
                           world's most self-reliant people. Nothing
seemed
                           impossible once they made up their minds to
do it.

                           Norman Lee drove cattle to the Klondike gold
rush and
                           Dick Church drove a tractor to the source of
Big Creek
                           one winter to pull a wrecked plane out of
Lorna Lake.
                           Neither Norman nor Dick made a nickel on
their projects
                           and neither regretted trying.

                           Those people asked nothing of the government
and
                           were neither surprised nor disappointed when
nothing
                           was exactly what they got.

                           That is now completely reversed. When Wayne
                           Plummer's hay meadow cabin burned to the
ground
                           while left alone and untended, the police
were curious.
                           "Mr. Plummer, does anyone hold a grudge
against you?
                           Can you think of anybody who wants to do you
harm?"
                           He thought a while and said, "Only the
government."

                           One must beware. Few things are more tiresome
than
                           old farts going on and on about good old
days. They
                           weren't all good in Chilcotin. The land had
its share of
                           faults.

                           There weren't many murders, but there weren't
many
                           people either and statisticians might find
the murder rate
                           was high. The justice rate was low. One of
two
                           commissioners appointed to investigate a
death, there
                           being no coroner, reports, "He was beat up
pretty bad
                           but we figured if his heart hadn't stopped
he'd still be
                           alive so we put it down as heart trouble."

                           There was more than one case of incest in
that lonely
                           country. Too many young men knew no other
form of
                           social life than getting falling down drunk
before the
                           dance was two hours old. Teachers in one-room
log
                           cabins, and ranch wives in kitchens could
seldom bring
                           the great outside world to their students for
introduction.

                           A country okay for Swedes and grizzly bears,
but hard
                           on horses and school teachers.

                           I am reminded of one ranch wife who said "I'm
almost 60
                           and there are only three things I can do
well. I can
                           handle a wood stove, I make good bread and I
can back
                           up a five-horse trailer."

                           Or another, Mickey Dorsey, heroic wife of the
heroic
                           Lester, who noted that in ranch life the day
always came
                           when a mother could no longer tell her
daughters from
                           her sons. They could rope and ride and doctor
sick
                           horses. "They'll make wonderful wives for
ranchers, but
                           that is all they will ever know."

                           Why were they in Chilcotin, this happy little
band of
                           people, individualistic, resourceful,
independent and,
                           buried not far beneath the casual good humor,
                           immensely, some would say absurdly, proud of
                           themselves? Indeed, most were guilty of one
of what the
                           Bible calls the Seven Deadly Sins, the sin of
pride.

                           Was there something in the name? The word
Chilcotin
                           is, by one definition, an attempt to say in
English the
                           aboriginal word for "River of The Young Men."

                           They were there for a dream, the kind of
dreams young
                           men have and middle aged men think they know
better
                           than to hang on to.

                           Of course it is good that in the year 2000,
Chilcotin has
                           joined the rest of the world. A little
different now, but no
                           longer unique. It would be churlish not to
rejoice for
                           today's people.

                           But I will always be grateful that I knew
Chilcotin when it
                           was young, wild, funny and free, dreaming the
glorious
                           and impossible dreams that only youth knows.
				____________________

                           Paul St. Pierre, novelist, syndicated
newspaper and
                           Internet columnist, former police
commissioner, lapsed
                           politician and a fair wingshot, divides his
time between
                           the Chilcotin, Fort Langley and Mexico. He
has been
                           exploring the Chilcotin for about 50 years.

                           He is the recipient of the BC Gas 2000
Lifetime
                           Achievement Award.



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