The Wilderness Grapevine

You will be re-directed to our new blog location!

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 15:52:00 +0000

We have integrated our blog into our website. You will be transferred momentarily to bcyukonadventures.com/wildernesstripscanada

Adopting A Killer Whale

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 15:10:00 +0000

By becoming a member of the B.C. Wild Killer Whale Adoption Program you will be directly supporting research on wild killer whales. Continuing research will lead to a better understanding of the whales, their place in the ocean ecosystem, and the conservation measures necessary to protect them.

Killer whales, or orcas, are found in all the world's oceans, but nowhere are they more accessible for viewing and studying than in Canada's west coast waters.

Learning everything we can about killer whales is the best way to protect them.

* How do new pods form?
* Where do resident killer whales go in the winter months?
* Why do 50 per cent of newborns die in their first year?
* How do killer whale dialects develop over time?
* Are killer whales particularly susceptible to environmental toxins?
* Is increased boat traffic affecting killer whale behaviour?

Researchers in Canada and the U.S. have been investigating groups of killer whales that frequent the area annually for more than 25 years and are trying to answer these questions and others. Once widely feared, killer whales are now understood far better than they were only three decades ago.

Some of the projects funded by the program include:

Population genetics: Dr. Lance Barrett-Lennard at the Vancouver Aquarium Marine Science Centre has been using DNA analysis to answer questions like how do resident killer whales avoid inbreeding and how do female killer whales know how to choose a mate.

Acoustics: Killer whales rely on sound to communicate and to navigate through the water. Researchers are studying the sounds killer whales make to learn more about their social structure and monitor their movements along the B.C. coast.

Photo-identification: Photo-identification is one of the most useful tools of whale biologists. It is an invaluable method of monitoring the health of British Columbia's killer whale populations.

Adopt a wild killer whale for yourself or someone else. A gift membership in the B.C. Wild Killer Whale Adoption Program is a unique and thoughtful gift for people of all ages.

The B.C. Wild Killer Whale Adoption Program is hosted by the Vancouver Aquarium Marine Science Centre, a non-profit organization. All contributions go directly to research and conservation of killer whales in the wild. Contributions are tax-deductible both in Canada and the USA to the extent of the law.

How Do I Adopt a Whale?
To symbolically adopt a whale and support our field research program, you simply choose the type of adoption package that suits you best, and select the whale or whales you would like from a list of transient and resident killer whales living off the coast of British Columbia. Choosing your whale is the hardest part. Some people select a whale born in the same year that they were or the year their child or grandchild was born. Others select whales because they like the sound of their name. Still others choose their whale because its picture appeals to them. To get started on adopting your whale, click here.

What Do I Get with My Adoption?
With all packages you will receive a photograph and biography of the whale you've chosen, an adoption certificate, and the most recent issue of our annual journal, the Blackfish Sounder.

Staying Uneaten in the Wilderness

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 15:32:00 +0000

Have you been hiking a favourite trail lately and noticed a fair number of prey animals about? Well, it is not your natural personality, or musk deodorant, or happenchance at work.

A researcher at the University of Calgary, in Alberta, Canada, has found a correlation between the number of humans who use a trail and the number of predators who are active in the area.

Using digital camera traps around trails in the Canadian Rockies, the researcher found that, if more than 18 humans used the trail each day, predators disappeared in significant numbers. More than 32 humans per day and the number of prey increased.

The findings are all together not rocket science but do help to support the notion that wild predators, such as bears, are wary of humans, and will shy away from any meeting if given the chance. Knowing that an area is frequented by humans will register with them and they will wander off to areas where human contact is less likely.

Prey animals do not associate humans with predatory actions and are less concerned about ending their days on bone china. Before all you deer hunters head for your rifle lockers and book a flight to the Rockies, the researcher also found that prey animals either can read signs or calendars that advise about the opening of hunting season, or some internal mechanism causes them to migrate away from the area during open season.

So, if you are looking to see friendly wildlife, and at the same time not be viewed from the bushes as a main course, find 17 friends to go hiking with.

Yukon: Dempster of the Mounties

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 19:06:00 +0000

"I'm one of the Arctic brotherhood, I'm an old-time pioneer.
I came with the first -- O God! how I've cursed this Yukon -- but still I'm here.
I've sweated athirst in its summer heat, I've frozen and starved in its cold;
I've followed my dreams by its thousand streams, I've toiled and moiled in its hold."
Robert Service

It took exceptional men and women to challenge the north. To be a member of the North West Mounted Police was to accept both the worst and the best that the Yukon offered. Reward came in the form of service and the visceral freedom of space and landscape.

I learned of William John Duncan Dempster from his granddaughter, Beth. Beth guided with, and for me, for over 20 years. The more I heard of his story, the more I saw the same qualities of quiet resolve, caring, and professionalism in Beth that made WJD Dempster’s tenure as a North West Mounted Policeman in the Yukon very special.

Dempster came to Canada from Wales. He joined the NWMP in 1897 and was posted, over the years, in various Yukon communities. He served exclusively in the Yukon, retiring with the rank of Inspector in 1934.

It was incumbent on each NWMP post to provide written details of official business to headquarters periodically. In so doing, they also provided a source of mail delivery and outside news to locals. It was with this responsibility that Dempster was elevated to national attention in 1910.

One of the mail runs was from Fort McPherson in the MacKenzie Delta to Dawson City, a distance of about 800 miles each way. Countless rivers, creeks, treeless valleys, mountainous terrain, and snow cover made the route complicated at best during the winter. In 1910-11, Inspector F.J. Fitzgerald, with three constables, left Fort McPherson in late winter for Dawson City. They died on the trail. Their story is remembered as the “Lost Patrol” and is worth the read. (See bottom of post).

Corporal Dempster, along with two other constables and a First Nations’ guide, were charged with finding what happened to Fitzgerald’s patrol. Dempster’s patrol left Dawson in February, 1911 in an extremely cold period where temperatures dropped well below freezing (he recorded one day at -80 degrees F with wind chill). Signs of a tragedy began to appear as he discovered abandoned campsites, gear, and dog remains. It became evident that Fitzgerald had become hopelessly lost. On March 21 and 22 he discovered all four bodies.

Dempster was ordered to make the route a safer one. During 1912-13 he established food caches, shelter cabins, and trail markings for future travel. In 1920 he covered the route in 14 days by dogsled, a record held to this day.

When he retired in 1934 he was the most well-known and respected Mountie in the Yukon. He died in 1964 at the age of 88.

In 1958 the Canadian Government decided to build an old weather road across the Arctic Circle from Dawson City to Inuvik. In honour of his contribution in the north, the road was to be named the Dempster Highway. Construction was stopped in 1961 but renewed again and officially opened on Aug 18, 1979.

Although he did not live to attend the opening, William John Duncan Dempster knew before his death that the highway would be named for him.

Bibliography:
NORTH, DICK. 1978. The Lost Patrol. Anchorage: Alaska Northwest Publishing Company.

Bowron Lakes: Oh, Double and Triple Nuts!

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 17:03:00 +0000

Nuts II: The Tent Crashers

Squirrels are very territorial and will do all that it takes to protect their property. This has been very evident with squirrels chasing each other about, on the ground, up and down trees, in the areas we camped along the Bowron Lakes.

It was a beautiful sunny day when we made camp on Spectacle Lake, one of the lakes in the chain. As is the case with canoeing guides, off time is scheduled to relax from the duties of the day. I retreated to my tent for some reading and the luxury of an afternoon nap.

The quiet of the moment was interrupted only by the occasional refrain from a loon or chattering disagreement between squirrels. Ah, heaven! I began to read, realizing that the heaviness of my eyelids would soon carry me off to sleep. As my awareness of what I was reading was being replaced by Jaime Lee Curtis's invitation to join her in my dream, I was startled to consciousness by something on my tent wall.

A squirrel had squeezed under the protective fly covering, ran up the side of the tent, over the top, down the other side, and out. I hardly had time to mentally absorb what was happening, when a second chattering squirrel, followed in chase of the first one. Too bad he wasn't able to catch up to the first squirrel I thought, as the dust up would have presented a UFC (ultra fighting) moment.

Senses returned, I couldn't help but break out in open laughter as to what had just happened. I couldn't wait to tell the story to others in the group. Wait a minute! My attention was drawn to a series of holes created by sharp claws on the fabric of my tent. The walls and dome of the tent bore the reminder of the paths used by both squirrels.

I was really annoyed to spend the remainder of the afternoon with a seam sealer glue closing the many little claw holes, rather than with Jamie Lee Curtis.

Nuts III - That was One Huge Squirrel!

It was a particularly dry and sunny canoeing trip on the Bowron Lakes. We had made camp and all were enjoying the warmth of the sun and the holiday from the rain gods.

I had completed some duties and was returning to my tent for some R&R. My attention was drawn to two squirrels, one of whom was chasing the other up one tree and down another, and along the ground. It provided an unanticipated source of entertainment.

I stood watching when, in a sudden, the path of the chase came directly towards me. The chasee and chaser were oblivious to my presence. As the chased squirrel came within a meter, it became aware of my human rather than arboreal nature and hence not an appropriate escape option. It set its tiny skidding feet in a dusty, stopping action to prevent a collision. The chasing squirrel, which was just on his heels, had little time to react to the sudden stop. It fully collided into the rear end of the chasee, sending both squirrels head over heels into my boots. Fur and dust flying, both came out of their aerial somersault, landed on the ground facing in opposite directions. Any thought of one squirrel dominating the other was quickly set aside as each raced off to avoid one hell of a bigger "squirrel". Oh well, it would provide one great story for their nutlings and grandnutlings in the future.

Bowron Lakes: Oh, Nuts!

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 16:31:00 +0000

Although encounters with bears, moose, and other large animals have left more impacting moments in my years of guiding, the more comical ones often involved much tinier denizens. Three of my favourite stories were of the bushy tail variety, and all happened along the Bowron Lakes.

The Bowron Lakes are a series of large and small lakes connected by portages, streams, and rivers. Set against the backdrop of the glaciers and mountains of British Columbia's Cariboo region, it is considered by many to be the quintessential lake canoeing experience in Canada and is ranked as one of the world's ten best.

Many years ago, before metal food caches on the ground were added to the campsites along the Bowron Lakes, caches were usually wooded platforms set between two accommodating trees, some 5m/15' above the ground and located a short distance from our campfire and tenting area. The trees were also set some distance from other surrounding trees to prevent access via any kind of jump. Further security was provided by stove piping placed at the base of the supporting trees and above the platforms, to prevent any animals from climbing onto the platforms. We would access the platform by raising a wooden ladder, left on the ground, at each cache. What animal could possibly breech such an intricate defensive system?

As our day came to an end, the guides would bring the food, and the like, to the platform, climb the ladder, and secure it for the evening. The remainder of the evening was left to sitting around the campfire to enjoy conversation and the stillness and quiet of our wilderness setting.

This bucolic setting was interrupted at one of the campsites by the incessant chirping of a squirrel. It just went on and on! My assistant guide went off to see if he could locate the source of the irritation and throw a pine cone at the offender. He returned a short time later with a smile on his face, while the chirping continued unabated. He beckoned us to follow him. All ten of us followed as he led us to the food cache. And there, sitting atop one of our food dry bags on the platform, sat one really pissed off squirrel. He just kept on chattering. He probably climbed the raised wooden ladder while we were getting another item to place on the platform. Since there was no option for him to get down once the ladder was lowered, his frustration became heightened, and he announced it with his continued chattering.

Amusement aside, we reset the ladder, vacated the area and listened from a distance. Quiet returned and we assumed that he had taken advantage of the ladder and hustled on home. We went back to see if he had indeed left. Yes he did. Before lowering the ladder, I climbed to the platform to insure that everything was okay. That little ...........! He had bitten through our snack dry bag and eaten a good portion of our dried fruit and nuts.

All I could envision for the rest of the evening was this bushy rodent lying on his back in his tree trunk home, with a huge smile and distended tummy. If Mother Nature was at all fair, I hoped that he would suffer from one big tummy ache for a few days.

In the next posting, I'll relate the other two short stories.

West Coast Trail: How to Use a Forest Fire for Rescue.

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 14:33:00 +0000

"Good plan Beth! The forest fire should bring attention to us and we'll be able to evacuate her" - but we'll get back to this part of the story shortly.

Evacuation is always a possibility when guiding groups. Rough terrain can lead to sprains, strains, twists, pulls, and breaks. Fortunately, over 23 years of guiding, I have had to evacuate only two hikers. One of these was along the West Coast Trail, and it provided a great story.

I was guiding with Beth Dempster, one of our best and seasoned guides. When hiking through the twisting rain forest sections of the West Coast Tail, Beth would take lead and I would take the tail. This method offered optimum safety for our charges. Lead can identify upcoming hazards and control pace, while the tail would monitor the slower members of the group.

During one of these sections, I decide to take a quick break for a visit to the "little boy's forest". Returning to the trail, I picked up my pace to catch up with the group. I heard noise up ahead and assumed it was some other hikers traveling in my direction. As I came around a bend in the trail, I was surprised to see our group retreating towards me with some haste. One of the female hikers was limping quite noticeably. This didn't look good, I thought, offering up the obvious.

"Black bear up ahead!", came the warning.

I didn't see Beth with the group. Was she okay? Any seasoned, honest guide will tell you that a concern for one's partner is firmly rooted in the fear that you will have to do all the meal preparations and clean-ups on your own, if the other guide is injured, or eaten by a bear.

Beth appeared. A sigh of relief! She informed us that the bear eventually left the trail for the underbrush. We waited awhile to allow the bear space and time to disappear completely, then we continued on our way.

The woman who had tripped over a root in her eagerness to get out of the "kill zone", as she called it, insisted she could continue with the hike. Her knee, although tender, did not show signs of anything serious. We reached our beach campsite for the evening and settled in.

Cold compresses and loving attention seemed to work fine on our injured companion.

The next morning, when we checked on her condition, the knee had ballooned. She found it extremely difficult to get around, or to even bend it. Beth and I conferred away from the group and decided that one of us would have to stay with her until the swelling went down. We would then slowly hike back to a water crossing where we could have a First Nations ferryman take us back to his village. From there, we could get her to a medical facility by road for further assessment.

We decided (that's guide talk for "I" decided) that Beth would go on with the rest of the group. We were about 3 days hiking to the end of the trail. This would mean that Beth would have to do all the work alone, something that she mumbled incoherent words about. Maybe all this could be avoided if we could attract the attention of some fishing vessels some distance offshore, she opined. I felt that they were too far away to be attracted to any of the flares that we carried for emergencies. Nonetheless, Beth was intent on trying it. We all stood on the beach beside her as she sent the flare high into the air. Unfortunately, in activating the trigger mechanism, she affected the trajectory, and the flare arched overhead and into the rain forest behind us rather than into the ocean. "Good plan Beth! The forest fire should bring attention to us and we'll be able to evacuate her". Beth could not see the humour in my comment, a serious flaw in an otherwise exceptional woman.

Fortunately, the wetness of the rain forest prevented the flare from igniting any vegetation. It was back to the original plan.

The group headed out on the trail as the woman and myself stretched out on the warm sands offered up by a sunny day on the trail. Any feelings of guilt were quickly warmed out of my psyche. We would wait the day there before hiking (limping) a short distance to the ferryman's boat for evacuation. Once I was able to arrange medical assistance, I would return to the trailhead, hike back in, and meet Beth to finish our tour of duty.

No more than 30 minutes had passed when I heard, from around a headland, the recognizable whip!whip!whip! of a helicopter. I quickly sought out the flare pen and fired off a flare, careful not to bring down the helicopter as it flew over us. It continued on its way. Drat, I thought! They weren't going to stop. The copter then flew out over the ocean, made a sweeping turn, and returned to the beach. It hovered there for a minute or two. We later found out that the pilot was assessing the danger of attempting a landing on the beach. It was wonderful to see it finally descend and land some 50 meters from where we were sitting.

The copter was from the 442 Coast Guard Rescue Squadron, stationed just up the coast. The tail section opened and a crew member made his way over to us. I described our situation and asked if they could get us to some help. Sure. We grabbed our gear and headed over to the copter, up the rear ramp, and settled on a bench seat. No luxury here.

I was excited about the prospect of a helicopter flight, as I had never flown in one before. This excitement was somewhat tempered by the the fact that the copter shook like a dog trying to off load a body full of fleas. I was convinced that it was trying to dislodge every nut and bolt that held it together.

I looked out the small portal window as we flew over the ocean, parallel to the West Coast Trail. We were heading to Bamfield, the small town at the end of the trail, where I could arrange medical help and transportation back to Vancouver for our injured hiker. Wow, I thought! This was so cool! It would take us all of 15 minutes to cover the distance that Beth would cover over 3 days.

A crewman came over as we flew, and fitted us with headphones so that we could communicate over the shaking and rattling of the copter. He had to fill out an evacuation form for his superiors. I asked if they flew the route daily. No, he said. They were on a special assignment to pick up an elk's head in Victoria, for the officer's mess on base. I laughed. I thought he was pulling our legs. No. He gestured to the front of the copter, to a large orange garbage bag situated between the pilot and co-pilot. There were two large antlers protruding from the orange bag. I nodded in acknowledgment - the privilege of rank!

We reached Bamfield and the help that we needed. The next day I hiked back to meet up with Beth and relate one heck of a story.

Swiftwater Bill Gates and the Klondike Goldrush

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 15:40:00 +0000

Another of my favourite stories while guiding on the Chilkoot Trail and Yukon River was about a scoundrel of legendary proportions - Bill Gates. No, not Mr. Microsoft, but "Swiftwater" Bill Gates.

The Klondike Goldrush was a magnet for men and women driven by need, commerce, or adventure. Of those who did triumph over the hardships of the Chilkoot Trail and the Yukon River, and reached Dawson City, very few realized their dream of fabulous wealth. One who did, was a flamboyant character named Swiftwater Bill Gates.

Swiftwater Bill left his work as a boatman (hence his nickname) in Idaho and worked his way north to Alaska. His first bit of good fortune was to be there in 1896 when word arrived that gold had been found in the Klondike. He quit his job as a dishwasher and immediately set out for Dawson City.

Claim “Thirteen Eldorado”, not far from the original discovery claim, had not lived up to its expectations. Bill partnered with six other prospectors and was able to lease it. After digging and working shaft after shaft, the group became quite dispirited and ready to abandon all hope. Then, they hit paydirt. Bill became a millionaire by today’s standards.

There was nothing inconspicuous about Bill. He enjoyed the luxuries and attention that instant wealth brought him. He would walk the streets of Dawson dressed in top hat, white shirt, and coat.

Managing his wealth was not in his constitution or perhaps, even, his ability. He loved women and he loved to gamble, both anathema to holding on to wealth. He would make large impulsive bets that he lost. He would invite dance hall girls to the claim to pan for all the gold they wanted. Whether legend or truth, Bill’s love for women gave rise to one of the great stories of the Klondike Goldrush.

Bill fell for Gussie Lamore, a dance hall entertainer. He wanted to marry her and even promised her weight in gold if she would oblige him. He found out that Gussie was not completely faithful to him. Gussie loved eggs and Bill would seek his revenge by purchasing every, short in supply, egg in Dawson City just to deny her. Gussie eventually left Dawson and returned to San Francisco. Bill would seek her out there in 1897.

Here’s an abbreviated version of Bill’s love life after searching out Gussie: he found that Gussie was married with a child, so he married her younger sister Grace. He couldn’t get over Gussie, so they divorced. Not long after, he impregnated and married a 16 year old named Bera Beebe. Just as she was expecting their second child, he abandoned her and sought Gussie once again, this time in Montana. Gussie was still unavailable, so he took up with another Lamore sister, Belle, although there is no record of them marrying. In 1901, he married his 14 year old step-niece Kitty while still married to Bera. He was arrested in San Francisco for bigamy but charges were stayed. He divorced Bera and remarried Kitty. He divorced Kitty in 1906. Two years later he married an 18 year old, Sadelle. In 1915, Bera‘s mother eventually caught up to him and had him arrested in Seattle for bigamy. He managed to avoid jail time by bribing key authoriries.

While all this love stuff was happening, Bill was spending prodigiously, and eroding his fortune. Bill, however, had a knack for landing on his feet. He found time during all this to gain further fortune in the Nome and later Fairbanks goldrushes.

After avoiding jail in Seattle, he sailed for Peru. Not much is known about his years there. Apparently he continued to search out gold and ended up owning a huge silver mine. He was murdered there in 1937, circumstances unknown, but one would have to assume it was over a woman!

Nootka Sound: The Story Of John Jewitt - Part III

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 13:04:00 +0000

After nearly 3 years in captivity, the Lydia, under Samuel Hill appeared in Nootka Sound on July 19, 1805. Hill was aware that Jewitt and Thompson might be among these natives. The chiefs met to decide what they should do with Jewitt and Thompson. Some suggested they be killed, others that they be released, and still others who thought they should be taken into the forest and kept there until the ship sailed. Maquinna decided to visit the ship and assess the danger and possibilities of trade. He was discouraged by some chiefs who felt that his life would be in danger. Maquinna felt comfortable enough with Jewitt’s assimilation and friendship to ask Jewitt to write a letter of introduction to the captain. "Dear Sir, the bearer of this letter is the Indian king by the name of Maquinna. He was the instigator of the capture the ship Boston, of Boston in North America, John Salter captain, and of the murder of twenty-five men of her crew, the two only survivors being now on shore - Wherefore I hope you will take care to confine him according to his merits, putting in your dead lights, and keeping so good a watch over him, that he cannot escape from you. By so doing we shall be able to obtain our release in the course of a few hours."

When Maquinna asked Jewitt to read what he had written, he went over each line, fabricating a new narrative, saying that he had instructed the captain to give Maquinna molasses, biscuits and rum and that he had always been well treated. "He said 'John, you no lie?' After closely examining Jewitt's face, Maquinna said he believed Jewitt and left in a canoe, carrying the letter to the Lydia's captain.

Hill read the letter and had Maquinna detained. When word reached the village that Maquinna was being held, some chiefs wanted to kill Jewitt. Most feared that if Jewitt and Thompson were not released, Maquinna would be killed. They pleaded with Jewitt to save his life. A trade was finally arranged and Jewitt and Thompson were taken out to the Lydia.

Maquinna, who was in irons, and Jewitt, spent a sleepless evening together. They talked about the time they spent - "John,you know when you alone, and more than five hundred men were your enemies, I was your friend and prevented them from putting you and Thompson to death, and now I am in the power of your friends, you ought to do the same by me." Jewitt needed no convincing as he had already convinced Hill to release Maquinna.

The parting was very emotional for both men -"Then, grasping both my hands with much emotion, while the tears trickled down his cheeks, he bade me farewell, and stept into the canoe, which immediately paddled him on shore. Notwithstanding my joy at my deliverance,...I could not avoid experiencing a painful sensation on parting with this savage chief, who had preserved my life, and in general treated me with kindness, and considering their ideas and manners, much better than could have been expected."

They were to see each other one last time when the Lydia returned to Nootka Sound in November.

The Lydia did not return to Boston until it had completed its trading mission in 1807.

Return to civilization was not an easy transition. John Thompson died in either Havana or Philadelphia in 1815 or 1816 (different accounts collide). Jewitt married and had 5 children. They settled in Connecticut. He never seemed to be able to distance himself from his days in Nootka Sound. He published his diary and traveled around New England selling it. The narrative was rewritten in 1815 by Richard Alsop, a well known author of the period . The title did not exactly role off the tongue : A Narrative of the Adventures and Sufferings of John R. Jewitt; Only Survivor of the Crew of the Ship Boston, During a Captivity of Nearly 3 Years Among the Savages of Nootka Sound with an Account of the Manners, Mode of Living, and Religious Opinions of the Natives.

Jewitt’s book became an invaluable window for historians and ethnographers into the customs, daily life, spiritual beliefs, and traditions of early west coast natives.

Jewitt was never able to settle down. He continued to travel and sell his book until January of 1821, when at the age of 37, he died of unstated causes.

Maquinna was last seen in 1825. He would have been around 70 years old, still greeting ships and interested in trade.

Nootka Sound: The Story Of John Jewitt - Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 13:03:00 +0000

Note: This is the second in a three part series. Read earlier post to better appreciate Jewitt's story.

Jewitt and Thompson responded very differently to their captivity. Thompson hated the natives and was very bitter with his situation. Jewitt, on the other hand, did whatever was necessary to ensure he would survive his captivity, including learning their language. "I had determined from the first of my capture to adopt a conciliating conduct towards them, and conform myself, as far as was in my power, to their customs, and mode of thinking, trusting that the same divine goodness that had rescued me from death, would not always suffer me to languish in captivity among these heathens."

Over time Jewitt endeared himself to Maquinna and his family. His ironworking was much treasured by the chief and Maquinna would put Jewitt and his skills on display to maximum benefit during trading sessions with other villages. "I became quite an object of curiosity to these people, very few of whom had ever seen a white man. They crowded around me in numbers, taking hold of my clothes, examining my face, hands and feet, and even opening my mouth to see if I had a tongue... having undergone this examination for some time, Maquinna at length made a sign to me to speak to them. On hearing me address them in their own language, they were greatly astonished and delighted... "

Jewitt’s survival, and in turn Thompson’s, was very dependent on satisfying Maquinna, as well as hoping that his very powerful master came to no harm. Word had spread about the Boston massacre to other traders, with the result that they stayed away from the area. Jewitt and Thompson were viewed as potentially damaging as they had witnessed the massacre. “ ....some of the chiefs cared little what became of me, and probably would have been gratified with my death."

Maquinna expected that Jewitt become more culturally assimilated. He was forced to marry a native wife, dress in native garb, paint himself, and even adopt native spiritual beliefs. Although he accommodated these demands, he continued to practice his Christian faith by secretly going off into the forest on Sundays to pray in solitude.

An interesting development over time was what is today referred to as the Stockholm Syndrome - captives begin to express positive feelings towards their captors and their motives. "These injuries had excited in the breast of Maquinna an ardent desire of revenge, the strongest passion of the savage heart... Unfortunately for us, the long-wished-for opportunity at length presented itself in our ship...And here I cannot but indulge a reflection that has frequently occurred to me on the manner in which our people behave towards the natives. For, though they are a thievish race, yet I have no doubt that many of the melancholy disasters have principally arisen from the imprudent conduct of some of the captains and crews of the ships employed in this trade, in exasperating them by insulting, plundering, and even killing them on slight grounds."

Jewitt became more and more resigned to his captive fate. He had, whenever possible, written letters that he passed on to chiefs during trading visits. He hoped that one of these might be handed to another trader by this chief. This was not a particular dangerous thing to do as the natives did not read.

Nootka Sound: The Story Of John Jewitt - Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 12:56:00 +0000

A rich marine environment, coupled with protected waters, islands, and beautiful sandy beaches, draw sea kayakers and hikers to Nootka Sound on Vancouver Island’s west coast. Historically, the area was also site of Captain Cook’s visit in 1778, a continued struggle by Spanish and English interests for control of its rich trading opportunities, and the fascinating tale of John Jewitt.

Jewitt was a 19 year old English blacksmith, who signed on with an American trading ship, the Boston, appropriately, out of Massachusetts. His role was to produce iron goods that would be used in the trade with native peoples. The young Jewitt could not have anticipated the adventure that awaited him as the Boston sailed into Nootka Sound in March,1803.

Protocol called for the chief to come on board a trading vessel to welcome the captain to his territory. So it was that Maquinna (Ma-queen-a), a Mowachaht chief, and one of the most powerful and wealthiest chiefs on the west coast, extended a welcome to John Salter.

This was old hat for Maquinna as he had been welcoming Europeans to his shore since the days of Cook. He made huge profits as the middleman between the trading vessels and other native villages. He certainly made an impression on Jewitt - “...a man of dignified aspect, about six feet tall in height and extremely straight and well proportioned: his features were in general good, and his face was rendered remarkable by a large Roman nose, a very uncommon form of feature among these people; his complexion was of a dark copper hue, though his face, legs, and arms were on this occasion, so covered with red paint, that their natural colour could scarcely be perceived; his eyebrows were painted black in two broad stripes like a new moon, and his long black hair, which shone with oil, was fastened...over with white down, which gave him a most curious and extraordinary appearance. “

An exchange of gifts between the two leaders was customary to cement goodwill between them. On Salter’s part, he presented Maquinna with a double-barreled rifle. Maquinna used the rifle to shoot some ducks, which he presented to Salter in a subsequent trade meeting. One of the locks on the rifle had broken. Salter accused Maquinna of breaking it through overuse, and called him a liar, among other choice insults. Maquinna knew some English from his years of trade. Along with the tenor of its delivery, he was aware that he was being insulted. Jewitt – “ Unfortunately he understood but too well the meaning of the reproachful terms that the captain addressed to him. He said not a word in reply, but his countenance sufficiently expressed the rage he felt though he exerted himself to suppress it. I observed him, while the captain was speaking, repeatedly put his hand to his throat and rub it upon his bosom, which he afterwards told me was to keep down his heart, which was rising into his throat and choking him."

The next day Maquinna returned to the Boston with several of his chiefs and gifts. They were asked to stay for dinner, probably as a conciliatory gesture by Salter. Jewitt was at work below when he heard a commotion on deck. He left his work to see what was going on. As he reached the top of the stairs, he was grabbed by the hair. Fortunately for Jewitt, the native lost his hold, just as he swung his axe. Jewitt was hit in the forehead and collapsed unconscious to the deck below.

A short time passed before Jewitt, with one huge gash and headache, came to, and crawled up to the deck to see what had happened. He was immediately confronted, and his life threatened by natives holding knives. He surely thought his time had come. Maquinna addressed Jewitt by name. Maquinna had seen Jewitt’s work and realized his worth to him - "John - I speak - you no say no; You say no - daggers come!" He asked Jewitt if he was prepared to be his slave and make iron goods as requested. Jewitt answered yes to all Maquinna’s questions. He was then led to observe and identify the 25 severed heads of the crew, arranged in a neat line.

Another crew member, John Thompson, a sail-maker, was found hiding below deck. Thompson was ordered to be killed by Maquinna. Jewitt intervened and told Maquinna that Thompson was his “father” (Thompson was some 20 years older than Jewitt) and that he would commit suicide if his “father” was killed. Rather than lose Jewitt’s services, Maquinna reluctantly spared Thompson’s life.

The Boston had all items of worth removed and was then scuttled to hide any trace of the massacre. If word was to reach an American or European ear, trading vessels would no longer come or a retaliatory strike would follow.

Part II - Life Among the Nootka to follow.

Breaking News From the North Pole

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 01:07:00 +0000

It's time to take a break over the holidays. I want to thank the many of you who continue to read my posts that highlight the people, history, and stories that have been part of my life as an adventure guide.

Regardless of the faith that comforts and guides you, I wish you and your family and friends all the best. Merry Christmas!! I will see you in the new year.

I wanted you to be the first to hear the breaking news from the North Pole!

The gathered knew this time would come;
The mood was sombre, downright glum,
Muffled sobs, and cracking voices,
Acceptance and change were the only choices.
A frozen quiet filled the air,
As Santa spoke in Christmas Square,
“Long ago I chose this role,
To join you all here at the Pole,
We all hope to slow and to bend
Age and time - no man’s friend,
Reality has no emotional part,
Neither a preference, neither a heart;
I’ve made my choice, without much remorse,
Confidence reigns in my decided course.

Who, I thought, would fill my role,
To be the head elf, the jolly old soul;
A person of conscience, a person of will,
A person with character, wisdom, and skill?
So, without further fuss, and without further due,
The new face of Christmas will now come in view,
Roll back that curtain, and reveal who has won,
Reveal who is now the new number one!”

I was leaving my business, with nothing to do,
I was perfectly suited to head a new crew.
“Changes are coming !”, said I who was chosen,
“Cause I don’t do well in climes that are frozen.
We will pack up and move to a sunnier base,
Cut back on work, adopt an easier pace.
Reindeer are costly, and the sled is too old,
They’re now listed on eBay, soon to be sold.
I don’t like to fly, let alone stay up late,
So I’ve asked FedEx to step up to the plate,

All the presents will get there, none will be lost,
But all kids will be billed, a small shipping cost.
Our workforce - too large, we must become leaner,
Profit dictates that leaner is meaner,
I see you are worried, I can see for myself,
So I’ve urged Facebook followers to hire an elf.
Profit and more profit is the direction we’ll go,
Bah humbug to tradition, bah humbug to snow!
Our toys will be imported from China each year,
“Red ink to black ink” our new mantra for cheer,
Our business must profit to reflect our new ways,
Change must drive us to more prosperous days.”

I can’t say my ideas were met with applause,
By either the elves or old Santa Claus,
My vision was thrashed, there would be no encore,
Just a boot in the butt on the way out the door;
Santa fired me, I am again unemployed,
In rejection therapy, hope rests with Herr Freud,
But, I have new ideas, ones with some legs,
I am looking to profit from Easter eggs.

Yukon River: Murder at Hoochikoo

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 11:28:00 +0000

Every time I passed the location of the old North West Mounted Police post of Hootchikoo on the Yukon River, I had the canoes come together and we drifted. It was the perfect time to relate one of the most grizzly murders that happened at the time of the Klondike Goldrush.

Fred Clayson, a Skagway gold buyer and Lynn Relfe, a young bartender from Dawson City were leaving the Yukon and travelling together. They had stopped at Minto, one of the roadhouses built to feed and shelter travellers between Dawson and Whitehorse, Yukon. There they met Ole Olsen, a telegraph lineman, who invited them to join him for Christmas dinner with his friend, Corporal Ryan of the NWMP at Hootchikoo. They all left Minto together on Christmas day, 1899 . They never arrived for their dinner.

George O’Brien, an unsavoury character with a criminal background, and an accomplice were waiting in ambush to rob unsuspecting travellers. Relfe, Clayson, and Olsen became their victims. They were shot, belongings stolen, and their clothes burned, before their dismembered bodies were stuffed through a hole in the ice of the Yukon River.

After the murder, O’Brien is believed to have killed the only witness to the crime, his accomplice. He then slowly continued on his way up the Yukon River. At Tagish he was arrested for theft, but not for the yet unknown murders of Relfe, Olsen, and Clayson.

The failure of Olsen to arrive at Hootchikoo caused suspicion to grow that something bad had happened. Telegraph communication between various NWMP posts confirmed that the three men had not been seen. At about the same time, Clayson’s family had hired a private investigator, Philip Maguire, to search for the missing and overdue Fred.

NWMP Constable Pennycuick and Maguire teamed up to find some evidence of what could have happened to Clayson.

They made their way to the area that the three missing men were last seen and to where O’Brien was seen at about the same time.

They located O’Brien’s camp and began a meticulous piecing together of a terrible murder and the accumulation of evidence that would convict the murderer. They found:

- Remnants of burned clothing

- Frozen blood on a trail to the river

- Receipts in Olsen’s name

- A tooth which later matched Relfe’s shattered jaw

- Business keys belonging to Clayson

- Shell casings that matched O’Brien’s rifle left behind

- An axe that the murders used to create an ambush blind

They carefully catalogued all the evidence. There was enough here to charge O’Brien with murder, but locating the bodies and confirming that a crime had taken place, would cement their case. Finally the ice on the Yukon River melted and the bodies were found, confirming the brutal nature of the crime.

O’Brien, who was being held in a cell at Tagish, was arrested in June 1900 for the murders of Olsen, Clayson, and Relfe.

The trial took place the following July in Dawson City. It was covered nationally by newspapers. A very strong case was presented by prosecutors in the form of physical evidence and testimony of over 60 witnesses. Together they painted a complete picture of what happened.

After less than two hours of deliberation O’Brien was found guilty of murder and sentenced to hang on August 23, 1901. He maintained his innocence to the end, cursing all those who had a hand in his forthcoming execution. It was 7:35 a.m. when the trapped door opened and O’Brien was executed for murder of Clayson, Relfe, and Olsen. A small, silent group of men watched his final moments. There were no tears.

Interested in testing your sleuthing? Sgt. Higgins of the N.W.M.P. Gold Bottom Detachment, just outside of Dawson City, is investigating the murder of a prospector on his claim. He has released the evidence that he has mustered in the hope that someone can help solve this crime.

Physical Evidence

Suspect Interviews I

Suspect Interviews II

Suspect Descriptions

Boat Registry

West Coast Trail: The Janet Cowan

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 18:47:00 +0000

The rugged west coast of Vancouver Island was the scene of many a shipwreck during the 1800s. In my last blog post, I related the story of the Russian freighter Uzbekistan. Fortunately no lives were lost. This wasn’t always the case, as was witnessed with the Valencia (coming in a future blog post) and the Janet Cowan.

The Janet Cowan was a 4-masted barque that was caught in a violent gale and wrecked a few kilometers south of Pachena Point or not far from the location of the Uzbekistan’s final resting spot.

It was New Year’s Eve, 1895, when the barque, enroute from South Africa to Vancouver, BC, crashed on the rocks. There were 29 seafarers aboard under the command of Captain Thompson.

Thompson ordered the evacuation of the barque, as the constant battering of the waves against the hull would eventually send it on its side and break the vessel apart. A seaman bravely jumped into the cold and tempestuous surf and dragged a line to shore. The line was rigged with a bosun’s chair. Slowly the crew made their way to safety. In the tradition of the sea, Captain Thompson was the last to leave the ship. He lost his grip on the line and the bosun’s chair flipped, resulting in Thompson being dragged to shore, upside down, through the water. He survived the ordeal, but the worst for wear.

With constant snow or rain, cold temperatures, few supplies, and some survivors suffering from hypothermia, the decision was made to send nine of the strongest seamen in search of help. Their plan was to follow the telegraph line that linked Victoria with the lighthouses. Those who remained, would set up a camp on a bluff overlooking the ocean, from where they hoped to flag a passing boat. After eleven days of cold, miserable weather, five crew members succumbed to hypothermia, including Captain Thompson.

On January 11, an American tug, Tyee, rescued the survivors. A crewman from the tug recounted what he saw; “A sight ...... that will not be forgotten for years to come. Seated about a fire were 13 men all wearing an expression of utter helplessness and misery.”

The nine other men reached a cabin along the telegraph trail and were rescued by Phil Daykin, the lightkeeper of Carmanah, who set off on foot along the trail after being telegraphed by the Tyee.

The old telegraph trail, established in 1890 to link Victoria to coastal lighthouses, was rough at best. Winter storms often brought down the line and washed out the trail. After the wreck of the Janet Cowan, Canada's federal government talked about adding a lighthouse and developing the trail into a life-saving system, but no action was taken until one of the worst maritime disasters in modern history occurred on January 22, 1906, with the sinking of the passenger ship Valencia.

Read the newspaper account of the Janet Cowan tragedy.

West Coast Trail: Last Great Shipwreck

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Wed, 24 Nov 2010 21:35:00 +0000

The West Coast Trail has been witness to many shipwrecks during the 1800s. Most of these were the result of fierce coastal storms and poor navigational aids. As charts and more sophisticated navigational equipment evolved, the likelihood of any major shipwreck lessened - that was until the Russian freighter Uzbekistan ran up on a reef on April 1, 1943.

The Uzbekistan was assigned to transporting supplies for the war effort, between the west coast and Vladivostok, Russia. The reason the Russian captain, P. Ovchinnikoff, ran his vessel straight onto shore near Darling Creek, and far off its intended course, is still a mystery.

Speculation is that the surfacing of a Japanese submarine near the lighthouse at Estevan Point, and subsequent shelling of the beach nearby on June 20, 1942, played a role. After the attack, west coast lighthouses were ordered to maintain black-out conditions to protect coastal installations. Without a lighthouse reference, it is quite possible the captain became disoriented and steamed into shore.

With the vessel settled high on the coastal shelf, the captain and crew had no alternative but to abandon ship and wade through shallow tide water to shore. The crew hiked the rough coastal trail to Bamfield, some 18 km (9 mi) away. They were picked up by a Canadian naval ship and returned to Victoria. No inquiry followed as the captain, his crew, and ship’s log were very quickly returned to Russia. The Canadian army was charged with guarding the vessel. Bored sentries used the vessel as target practice to ward off the tedium.

It wasn't long before water filled her hull and fierce coastal storms rolled her onto her side , eliminating any possibility of saving her. Looters took little time in taking advantage of the ship’s situation.

“Them waters was bad news for the skipper of that boat, but good for me! As soon as she started breaking up, I knew there was no hope of salvaging the whole thing, but there was lots of smaller bits for me to pick up! You can still see her boilers and some engine parts wedged on the beach at low tide there. Nothing you could haul in to sell, but a good reminder of that night she ran aground.”

Pieces from the steel hull from the Uzbekistan can still be seen today at low tide at Darling Creek by hikers along the West Coast Trail.

Klondike Goldrush Era Riverboat Found

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 20:25:00 +0000

A.J. Goddard, named for her owner (Seattle's Pacific Ironworks), was built in San Francisco and shipped to Alaska in pieces. It was carried over the Chilkoot Trail and re-assembled at Lake Bennett. Bennett was the staging area for the vast movement of goldrushers and supplies in 1897-98. It became one of more than 250 steamboats that carried miners and supplies on the Yukon River. In October 1901 it sank in heavy winds, ice, and waves at the north end of Lake Laberge.

Three crew, the captain, cook, and fireman drowned and were buried when after their bodies washed ashore. A crewman and engineer managed to make it to shore and lived to recount the sinking.

The archaeological find is a window on life aboard a riverboat during this era, as the vessel and its contents were perfectly preserved in the cold waters.

"The boiler door is open and the firewood they tossed in to get try to get up enough steam to get out of trouble is still in there with charring on it," marine archaeologist James Delgado said. "Somebody shrugged off their coat and kicked off their shoes as they tried to swim for it and that's still lying on the deck."

The vessel had its own repair shop, blacksmith's forge, an anvil, and a workbench. Dishes, stove, and canvas tent on the main deck provide a window on crew life on board. The most interesting find was a music machine with 3 vinyl records, one in such good condition it can be played today.

Digital imagery, to map the well preserved remains, has now been completed. Visit the 3D imagery to find out more about the work

An interesting side story is that of Clara Goddard, wife of AJ Goddard, who became the first female riverboat pilot in the north.

The Sourtoe Cocktail

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 14:43:00 +0000

The Sourtoe Cocktail has become a Dawson City tradition, and is exactly what it sounds like: an actual human toe that has been dehydrated, preserved in salt, and served in a drink.

The tradition was begun in 1973. Some locals decided that visitors could become honorary sourdoughs by downing an alcoholic drink with a severed toe in it. One of them, Dick Stevenson, had bought a cabin just outside Dawson that had belonged to two brothers who ran booze during the Prohibition. On one such dogsled journey during the winter, one of the brothers had his toe frozen and then amputated by the other brother. For whatever reason, they kept the toe preserved in alcohol until it was discovered by Dick Stevenson. By replacing sourdough with sourtoe, visitors could bypass the traditional method of becoming a sourdough which was by surviving the freezing of the Yukon River in September to its break-up in May. The kicker was that the toe must touch the drinker’s lips.

In 1980, a local miner was trying for the sourtoe record. After many glasses, he accidentally tipped his chair backwards and swallowed the toe. It was not recovered, a dread that many contemplating the tradition fear may happen to them. Thanks to the generosity of other amputees there is a healthy reserve of toes should further accidents occur.

For the brave among you, the ritual is played out nightly at Dawson City's Downtown Hotel's bar during the summer months. Initially it was required that the human toe be placed in an alcoholic drink, but times have changed. Nowadays you can enjoy the ritual with a Coke. By having the toe touch your your lips sometime during the process entitles you to membership in the exclusive “Sourtoe Cocktail Club” and one of over 60,000 brothers and sisters.

Rockies: The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 22:37:00 +0000

It's important to have a respect and caution when hiking through bear country. The Rockies are such a place.

We had a husband and wife, Ed and Marlene, who joined our group because Marlene had an extreme fear of bears. Her husband had convinced her that she would be safe traveling with a group, and professional guides. She wasn't entirely convinced, but was not going to disappoint her husband, nor allow a fear to keep her from doing something she had dreamed of for many years.

We met with our group the night before our trip to discuss the hike ahead. Throughout our orientation session it was obvious that Marlene was uncomfortable. As the topic turned to safety in bear country, she had numerous questions that pointed to an anxiety that needed attention and calming. Her husband mentioned that some well-meaning friends had given her a book entitled, "Worst Grizzly Bear Attacks". She managed to read a few of the short stories before Ed took the book from her to avoid any further damage.

We assured Marlene that we followed a safe protocol in bear territory and never had any serious encounters. Besides, there had never been a recorded bear attack against a group. She offered that she heard that singing was a good way to announce one's presence while hiking. If this would comfort her, then we would do that for her. She said yes. My assisting guides were tasked with fulfilling my promise.

Over six days of hiking through some spectacular mountain scenery, we sang constantly. Someone in the group suggested that we rename the company, Van Trapp Expeditions. Aside of keeping the hills alive with the sound of music, we placed her in the middle of the group while hiking (bears would have to eat through 4 hikers, back and front before reaching her), made sure to locate her tent in the middle of all the others at night (the idea came from old westerns where wagon trains were circled at night), and gave her some bear spray to cuddle up with. I don't think Ed welcomed his demotion.

A successful battle plan had worked its magic. Our last night was a campsite adjacent to Mount Assiniboine. We celebrated our hike, talked about producing an album of our mountain songs, and rejoiced in the fact that we had seen no bears. A full moon, cloudless skies, and a ceiling of celestial points of light supplied an ambiance for a perfect end to a perfect week of hiking. Tomorrow we would break camp early, hike to the trailhead, and return to our separate lives.

I felt good about this hike as I lay my head down in the tent. Sometime, as I reviewed the week in my mind's eye, I fell off into a deep sleep.

What? What's the commotion? Shouts? I rose to my elbows, trying to shake the drowsiness from my head. Something was in camp and causing everyone to stir. We called to each other from within our tents. I instructed all to stay in the tents while the guides exited cautiously to see what our visitor was up to. We hoped that the kaffufle would frighten off the intruder. As we eyeballed the camp area, we became aware of an argument that was being played out in the middle tent. Apparently Marlene was insisting that Ed turn over the bear spray to her. He was afraid that she would, in a panic, fire off the spray indiscriminately, and he would be the victim. She, on the other hand, told her husband that she only wanted to read the instructions, to be prepared.

Nothing about! We told the hikers that everything was fine. Some called out wanting to know what came into camp. My junior guide blurted out that it was only a porcupine. Calmness returned. We went to each tent and made sure that people were once again comfortable. Two ladies, who were seasoned hikers, called us over to their tent. "That creature was outside our tent and it wasn't any @#!!&%$ porcupine!" We just looked at each other.

Leave No Trace and the Wilderness

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 13:21:00 +0000

Henry David Thoreau once said that the wilderness is the preservation of the world. We are all stewards of our environment. The degree of that stewardship is only limited by our education, commitment, and level of impact.

I think most of us who experience the wilderness, be it from pictures, film, the window of a vehicle, or camping, inherently realize its importance and the need to preserve it.

I'm not interested in wielding any ethical hammer, or apostatizing, or serving as some model to emulate. My hope is that you will see some value in finding out how, and what, you can contribute to your stewardship, when you are in the wilderness. There are many organizations committed to, and articles written about, this subject. You will probably find one that resonates. Here's one that I am comfortable in suggesting - "Leave No Trace".

The German and the Husky

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 11:55:00 +0000

On the first night of our adventures, we ask participants why they opted to do the trip. Such was the case with one of our Chilkoot Trail trips. Reasons varied, but none intrigued more than Elke's story.

Elke was a German lady traveling on her own. She had been to the north before and wanted to see more of it. She recounted the events of her first visit to our group. We were drawn deeper and deeper into a wondrous tail (sic) of humanity and humour.

Elke worked for Lufthasna Airlines. She won an internal contest for two to travel anywhere in the world that Lufthansa flew. She chose Alaska. She had seen a documentary about Alaska and the Idatarod dog sledding race, and jumped at the opportunity to experience both. She and her husband flew to Anchorage to see the start of the race and then do some touring.

The Idatarod begins in Anchorage, in south central Alaska, and ends in Nome on the western Bering Sea coast. It is run in the middle of winter, through the Alaskan wilderness, in sub-zero temperatures, and covers over 1150 miles.

She thoroughly enjoyed the excitement, preparation, and anticipation of mushers and dogs in the days before the start. She was witness to the beginning of a race that would test each team's resolve against the winter extremes of nature.

With the days that remained, she wanted to explore as much of Alaska as was possible within limitations of distance and weather. She and her husband rented a car for a visit to Fairbanks some 400 miles away. And, that's where her real Alaskan adventure began.

Although the connecting road is maintained and plowed, there is not much traffic aside from the occasional car or truck in winter. Within a hundred miles or so of Fairbanks, on a very desolate stretch of road, they noticed something furry sitting in the middle of the road. As they got closer, they were forced to stop. Initially they were convinced that the animal was a wolf. After closer examination, Elke became convinced that it was a Husky - her experience of seeing so many at the start of the race. Her husband was not as convinced and cautioned Elke that it would be best to honk the horn and force the canine to the side, and carry on with their journey. She opened the car door against her husband's most dire objection. The canine walked over, past Elke, jumped into the car, and onto the back seat. This action resulted in a quick exit from the vehicle by Elke's husband. The animal assumed a seated position on the backseat and announced his comfort with a wagging tail. After some conversation, both Elke and her husband were sure that it was a dog - much to his relief. He still wanted to leave the dog on the road, as he was convinced that it must belong to someone in the area and they would be looking for him. Elke insisted that they bring the dog into Fairbanks and leave it at an animal shelter, as there were no houses in sight, or tracks in the snow, that would account for the dog's presence there. She would not forgive herself if the dog succumbed to the elements.

Being Sunday, they learned that the animal shelter was closed. Someone suggested that they seek help from the Alaska State Police. At headquarters, they related their story to a trooper on duty. He was taken by their concern for the animal and phoned the man who ran the shelter. Not altogether pleased to have his Sunday interrupted, he nonetheless agreed to the trooper's insistence that he meet them at the shelter.

Elke asked the animal shelter man what would happen to the dog. He said that they usually keep a dog for about a week. If no one claimed the dog, or no one else wanted it, it would be put down. Elke would have none of that. She told the man that if no one claimed the dog she would adopt it. After her husband's double-take, and attempt to reason her out of her foolishness, he finally just threw up his hands and resigned himself to her steadfastness.

They returned to Anchorage for the final week of their holiday. On Wednesday morning she decided to phone the animal shelter in Fairbanks to see if the dog had been claimed. It hadn't. The decision was to put the dog down that day. She implored, argued, groveled, for more time for the animal. There was no budging the man. Space was needed. She asked that nothing be done until she got there later in the day. She would adopt the dog.

She announced to her husband that they had to return to Fairbanks to retrieve the dog. He knew enough not to challenge her decision. She told him to check them out of the hotel and rent a vehicle. She was going to return to the Idatarod staging area, to the leader board, to see how the mushers were doing. While she was at the leader board, she got into a conversation with a man who recognized from her accent that she was a visitor. Was she staying on in Anchorage to see the final results? No. She then recounted her story and her need to rush to Fairbanks to save the dog from being put down. It turned out that the man was a reporter with a local paper. He saw a story here. He got the phone number to the animal shelter. When the man at the shelter corroborated Elke's story, the reporter said that he would run a story in the paper about his heartlessness to this German woman's efforts to save the dog. Not only that but that he would pass on the story to their sister paper in Fairbanks. The pressure of being identified to the local population was enough get the man to hold off until the end of the weekend. This would give Elke time to make all arrangements necessary to take possession of the dog, get vaccinations, and approval to take him to Germany.

She returned to the hotel to a perplexed husband who was instructed to check them back into the hotel and return the rented car.

Elke is now back in Germany. So is the newest member of their family - a Husky named Trooper. She named him in honour of the Alaska State policeman who had helped them so much.

(The most plausible theory of the dog's presence on the road was that it somehow jumped from a pickup truck without his owner ever noticing.)

West Coast Trail: Texas Grapefruit

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 19:08:00 +0000

"I have to warn you boss. You're apt to get a phone call from the Texans about their disenchantment with the West Coast Trail trip." Such was the ominous warning from my lead guide.

A few months earlier I had booked 6 members of the same Texas family to hike the West Coast Trail with us. They were a hodgepodge of cousins, uncles, brothers, and sons.

My lead guide reported that the family members were constantly at each other, arguing about this, that, family, politics, and whatever. No matter what the guide attempted to do to bring harmony to the situation, it didn't work. The two other members of the group were Germans with limited English who must have wondered about the theater of it all.

Every time the phone rang in the office over the following week or two, I expected the patriarch of this Texas group to be on the other end, ready to unleash a disgruntled tirade about our guides and services. But, no call came. I convinced myself that any dissatisfaction would manifest itself in telling whoever would listen, that doing a trip with us was tantamount to having a tooth pulled without freezing.

One day in the third week after the trip I answered the phone to a familiar southern drawl. I anticipated the worst and had prepared various talking points for every conceivable scenario that I could imagine - except the one he sprang on me. "Len, that was the best trip we have ever been on. We all had a great time. The scenery, the food, the guides - all excellent!" He went on to say that discord was a normal feature of their family gatherings, and the West Coast Trail was no different.

Somewhere, somehow, our conversation segued to a comparison of Texas grapefruits and California grapefruits. I am at a loss as to how that actually came about, but it did. An expected bluster of everything being bigger and better in Texas followed. He promised me that he would send along some Texas grapefruits to prove his point. People are well intentioned, but time, sense, and cost usually have people rethinking any promises made in the moment. I thanked him for his positive comments and his offer to send some Texas grapefruits my way.

Weeks passed and I had completely moved on from any thought of grapefruit ever arriving at the office. Then, the courier service appeared at the door!

After two trips to the truck and a strained expression on the courier's face, I was signing for two, very large, and heavy, cardboard boxes.

After prying open the boxes, I was surprised to see 48 of the largest grapefruits I had ever seen. It was more grapefruits than I could ever hope to consume without tilting my PH balance out of whack for weeks. My gosh! He had come through on his promise! And indeed, they were the largest, sweetest, most succulent grapefruits I had ever tasted.

What does one do with 40 grapefruit that I could not consume myself? Well, I went door to door in my condo with arm loads of grapefruit, knocking on doors, sharing the windfall, and relating the story more times than I care to remember.

Canoeing Assignment - Bowron Lakes

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 15:24:00 +0000

Got a guiding assignment - am off to paddle the Bowron Lakes with a group.

Taking my Italian wife along for protection. Ain't no bear gonna mess around with a Latin temper. - should be interesting!

As I am the only one in the office that can make Facebook postings, you'll have to wait a bit till the next one. Hope to have some wonderful photos when I return.

Thank you for following on my blog and facebook.

Backpacking Series: Sleeping Pad

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 17:28:00 +0000

Sleeping pads are the insulation barrier between your sleeping bag and the ground. With backpacking, space and weight are considerations when selecting the pad that serves you best. So, when viewing some of the options available, especially with inflatable models, the thickness may make you drool but the weight and size may be impractical.

Let's look at our options.

Closed Cell: You may come across a "R" with a number beside it when looking at pads. The "R" is its measure of resistance to heat loss. The higher the number the better its insulation properties.

Blue Foam - name comes from its colour. Relatively inexpensive, light, and is a good insulator. Anyone who doesn't find sleeping on hardwood floors and rock piles as comfortable may want to look further. You can determine quality by applying the pinch test. If foam rebounds quickly then it is good quality.

Yellow Foam - name comes from colour also. Basically same as Blue Foam except more durable and performs better in extreme cold.

Ridged Foam - name comes from look. Series of built in ridges (see sample photo) offers a little more comfort and insulation. Some models can be rolled and others folded. The folded model, since it operates on a hinged system, tends to be bulkier.

Inflatables: These pads are the preferred choice of most backpackers. They are lightweight and very comfortable. Most models are self-inflating and contain an open cell foam inside for better insulation. There are many models to choose from. Your frame will determine what length and width is most appropriate. Outdoor retailers will have models already inflated that you can test.

When you arrive in camp, one of the first things to do is release the valve of your sleeping pad and allow it to self-inflate. It does not completely inflate, but requires that you add what additional air you'd like to produce the thickness you find most comfortable.

When storing it at home, open the valve and allow it to self-inflate and put it away in this condition.

Therm-a-Rest NeoAir is the model that I now use. It doesn't include a cell foam inside nor does it self-inflate. But, it is extremely comfortable [ridge construction - see photo] , lightweight, and compacts for travel far better than anything else on the market. There is a non-slide lubricant that resists slipping off the pad during your sleep.

The down side is that you have to blow it up entirely - some people hate the fact that you cannot just slide into a new sleeping position - the regular model is not very wide.

May not be for everyone - test drive it before buying.

Pierre Trudeau on Canoeing

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 15:25:00 +0000

Pierre Elliot Trudeau was Canada's 15th Prime Minister. There was no fence sitting when it came to his popularity. Canadians either liked or hated him. But, no one could deny his love for Canada, his charisma, and the depth and breadth of his intellect. His death in 2000, resulted in an outpouring of national grief that had never before been witnessed in Canada.

The following is one of my favourite essays from a speech he gave. It was written in 1944 when he was still a young man, unaware of what history had in store for him. What surfaces is the passion and inspiration that would trademark his personal and political being.

I have taken the liberty to edit the piece for the sake of brevity, while, I believe, not affecting the essence of his words. There is a link at the end of the blog to the full text of the essay.

I would not know how to instill a taste for adventure in those who have not acquired it. And yet there are people who suddenly tear themselves away from their comfortable existence and, using the energy of their bodies, apply themselves to the discovery of unsuspected pleasures and places.

I would like to point out to these people a type of labour from which they are certain to profit: an expedition by canoe.

A canoeing expedition, which demands much more than that, is also much more rewarding. It involves a starting rather than a parting. Although it assumes the breaking of ties, its purpose is not to destroy the past, but to lay a foundation for the future. From now on, every living act will be built on this step, which will serve as a base long after the return of the expedition.

What sets a canoeing expedition apart is that it purifies you more rapidly and inescapably than any other. Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal five hundred on a bicycle and you remain basically a bourgeois; paddle a hundred in a canoe and you are already a child of nature.

For it is a condition of a [canoe] trip that you entrust yourself, stripped of your worldly goods, to nature. To remove all the useless material baggage from a man's heritage is, at the same time, to free his mind from petty preoccupations, calculations and memories.

On the other hand, what fabulous and undeveloped mines are to be found in nature, friendship and oneself! The paddler has no choice but to draw everything from them. Later, forgetting that this habit was adopted under duress, he will be astonished to find so many resources within himself.

My friend, Guy Viau, could say about our adventure, 'We got along very well with God, who is a damn good sport. Only once did we threaten to break off diplomatic relations if he continued to rain on us. But we were joking. We would never have done so, and well he knew it. So he continued to rain on us.' The canoe is also a school of friendship. You learn that your best friend is ...... someone who shares a night's sleep with you after ten hours of paddling at the other end of a canoe. How does the trip affect your personality? Allow me to make a fine distinction, and I would say that you return not so much a man who reasons more, but a more reasonable man. For, throughout this time, your mind has learned to exercise itself in the working conditions which nature intended. Its primordial role has been to sustain the body in the struggle against a powerful universe.

A good camper knows that it is more important to be ingenious than to be a genius. And conversely, the body, by demonstrating the true meaning of sensual pleasure, has been of service to the mind: You feel the beauty of animal pleasure when you draw a deep breath of rich morning air right through your body, which has been carried by the cold night, curled up like an unborn child.

How can you describe the feeling which wells up in the heart and stomach as the canoe finally rides up on the shore of the campsite after a long day of plunging your paddle into rain-swept waters?

Purely physical is the joy which the fire spreads through the palms of your hands. Make no mistake, these joys are exclusively physical. They have nothing to do with the satisfaction of the mind when it imposes unwelcome work on the body, a satisfaction, moreover, which is often mixed with pride. Now, in .......nature in its original state (rather than on books, ideas and habits of uncertain value), the mind conforms to that higher wisdom which we call natural philosophy; later, that healthy methodology and acquired humility will be useful in confronting mystical and spiritual questions. I know a man whose school could never teach him patriotism, but who acquired that virtue when he felt in his bones the vastness of his land, and the greatness of those who founded it."

Learn more about Trudeau.Read the full text of his writing.

Backpacking Series: The Sleeping Bag

noreply@blogger.com (Len Weg) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 15:28:00 +0000

Special Note: With all outdoor related products, manufacturers will offer a range of prices and item options. You will probably be guided by your needs and your budget. The top of the line products may include options that are unnecessary. On the opposite end of the spectrum are the cheap offerings. You can bet that there are reasons why they are the cheapest and you will most likely regret your purchase once you are in the field.

Purchase from manufacturers and outdoor stores who have an established reputation for customer service and satisfaction.

A full article about sleeping bags would be far too lengthy and complex to hold most people's attention. I hope to offer some basic information that you can expand upon when you visit an outdoor retailer.

Questions You Should Ask Yourself
Where will you be using the bag?
During which seasons?
Climatically, what will you most likely encounter?
Do you like to move around inside the bag or do you like a snug fit?
How much money are you prepared to spend?
Do you get cold easily?

Shape of your Bag
Mummy: narrow, close-fitting and are designed to save weight and maximize heat retention. They start narrow at the feet, get wider toward the shoulder, then taper to an insulated, fitted hood. Nearly all backpacking bags are mummy-shaped. Positive: The slim cut increases efficiency and saves space and weight. Hoods retain a lot of warmth. Negative: A big consideration for the claustrophobic type is the narrow shape can feel restrictive and inhibit sleep.

Rectangular: are warm-weather and built to be roomy. As a result, they let a lot of body heat escape. Many rectangular bags can be unzipped and used as comforters. Few have hoods. Positive: Lots of interior wiggle room. Negative: They're inefficient insulators, too heavy/bulky for most weight-conscious backpackers.

Tapered/Barrel: are narrow at the feet, broad at the hips and shoulders. You get more space than a mummy, but also more weight and bulk. Some offer hoods. Positive: Good heat retention and a little more room to maneuver. Negative: More room means your body has more space to keep warm; some thrashers still find them restrictive.

I prefer the barrel bag as I am one of those who cannot stand the restriction imposed by mummy bags. The lack of a hood can be compensated for with a warm hat. I also find the trade-off in weight to a mummy bag is negligible. In warmer weather I can unzip the bag and use it as a blanket which is not possible with a mummy bag.

Fill
There are two basic types of fill - synthetic and down. Down is the fluffy undercoating found just beneath the outer feathers of geese and ducks. Synthetic is basically plastic threads. Many manufacturers will have their own copyrighted fill based on weaving, material, and construction.

Down: works well for just about everyone except people who frequently find themselves in rainy conditions. Women often value downs warmth, softness and minimal weight. Positives: the warmth to weight ratio is excellent - it can be compacted into very small sizes - it far outperforms synthetic by many years. Negatives: if it gets wet it provides no insulation - takes along time to dry - can be quite pricey.

Synthetic: the threads are most commonly a long, single strand. Positives: less expensive than down -non-allergenic - still provides some insulation when wet - dries fairly quickly. Negatives:
it takes up more space than down in your backpack - heavier and takes more weight to get the same warmth down provides n- the fill gradually degrades over time - does not drape over the contours of your body as effectively as down.

Loft
Loft is the thickness of the bag. In combination with shape and size it will have a great bearing on warmth. A reasonable loft for a three season bag is 11cm/4 in to 14 cm/5.5 in. It is important to note however, that some people sleep warmer than others. You may require a greater loft.

Length
Make sure the sleeping bag is long enough to accommodate your body. Here's a general rule: If you are no taller than 6 feet, choose a regular length bag. If you are up to 6-feet-6, you'll want a long bag. If you are over 6-feet-6 take up basketball. If you are right on the border, maybe right at 6 feet or maybe half an inch taller, it's a judgment call on your part. If you choose a bag that's too short, you might tend to stretch a bag to make it cover you. Doing so flattens the bag and its insulation in spots, reducing its effectiveness.