I was shaking my head reading the controversy about provincial campsites being reserved and re-sold for higher prices.
Eventually only the rich will be able to go camping. That’s too bad because, as a young boy, I learned about myself, nature and people when I went camping.
My Uncle Bob and Aunty Marg never had children of their own and I have never taken for granted how fortunate we were to have two sets of adults to guide and counsel us. That was particularly true when Uncle Bob took us on one of his exciting fishing trips.
He liked to leave right after work on Friday night and the camper was packed and the boat was hooked up and God help anyone who got in our way on the Hope-Princeton or the Fraser Canyon. We had to be there before dark.
On one trip we were coming down the long grade into Spence’s Bridge when we saw a small wheel and tire fly by us, cross the road, hit the concrete barrier and disappear over the edge, headed for the Fraser River.
It was off our boat trailer. We unhooked the boat, a common sight on the side of the road back then, and drove into Spence’s Bridge to the only garage that was open, not having great expectations.
The owner had every make and model of spindle, tire and rim for any trailer.
As we paid the bill I learned, “A little bit of grease can go a long way.”
We had no map or GPS. Usually it was a hastily drawn map another customer had drawn on the back of an envelope. The roads were washboard and it was easy to miss the faded writing on the weathered sign that said ‘Watch for Logging Trucks.’
I fondly recall seeing the cloud of dust in the distance and the massive truck, loaded with huge logs up past the bunkers, as it bore down on us.
Uncle Bob cut to the right and we balanced precariously on the rough shoulder as the truck tore by, air horns blasting.
“Hang on,” was the command as in typical Uncle Bob fashion he dropped the old Dodge pickup into low gear, mashed down on the gas, and in an explosion of rocks and gravel we were back on the road.
Once we got to the “resort,” the man in the office would direct us where to park.
I don’t think we ever had a reservation, but I learned we wanted to be far enough from the outhouses not to smell them but close enough to stumble to them in the dark.
There were usually no frills like showers but I learned the places with the fewest amenities usually had the best fishing.
The rule was that the boat was on the lake at sunrise, and we had to be in it because he wasn’t coming back to get anyone.
When the lines hit the water it was “a nickel for the first, a nickel for the biggest, and a nickel for the most.”
You were pretty proud if you had 10 or 15 cents at the end of the day. But whether you caught a fish or not, a lot of wisdom was shared, and being on that lake at sunrise was magic.
A young boy can learn a lot in a fourteen foot boat in the middle of a quiet lake.
At least that’s what McGregor says.
