It was 1952, and I was getting itchy feet again. Since I was two years old, during the depression, my parents went sailing on the Great Lakes as ship's chef, for ten months of the year. This went on for years, till after the war. Every year I was boarded out at different friends in different towns. I guess that must have contributed to the development of itchy feet and the travel bug.
What better way to move around and see the land, than to get into the trucking business. Have your cake and eat it to. To travel and get paid for it.
I was working at my first full time trucking job. EATON'S of Canada. I was delivering appliances, within a 100-mile radius of Toronto. There were two of us running double. We had to carry fridges' & stoves, to some weird and wonderful places. Such as the third story attic, of a farm house. A back breaking job, but a good way for a young man to build up his body, for bigger and better things in the future.
I was having a beer with a couple friends, after work, one day. They mentioned that they had seen an ad, looking for experienced truck drivers to deliver new trucks out west to EDMONTON, ALBERTA. The next morning we all called for more info on the job. It was a one way trip. It paid a flat rate plus all expenses. Still, it was only one way, and no job at the other end.
I thought about it for a couple days, was about to turn it down, when John called and said that they have raised the rate, and needed another driver pretty badly. Well that grabbed me, and I agreed. I just had to see the Rocky Mountains. This was the way to do it.
A few days later, we assembled a convoy of ten drivers. We each had a truck tractor, with two other tractors piggy backed. This was another first for me. The trucks were lined up and pointed toward the exit gate. Some of the drivers had never pulled a tractor trailer before, let alone, doubles. Past experience proved damaging to the gates, fences and other vehicles in the assembly yard. Now it is just pre pointed and you go.
The next morning we were on our way. We all got out of town without any incidents. The convoy turned Northbound, and headed up to North Bay, Ontario, then headed West, toward Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. The roads were old, slow, and very narrow. It took about sixteen hours to get to the Soo. Ontario. (The Soo, is the short reference name for Sault Ste. Marie.)
The next morning we had to be down at the docks early, to load these trucks onto the ferry boat, before the rush. We made the crossing to the Soo, Michigan, without any incidents. They led us down to the Straits of Mackinac, and picked up US # two, to the West.
The road to western Canada, on the Canadian side was not passable at this time. To get to the western provinces, you had to drop down into the United States, and travel west to Minnesota, or anywhere to a western state that you could enter Canada again. A section of highway in northern Ontario was the final stretch to open up Canada, from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
In this case, we followed old US # two, all the way west to Shelby, Montana. Turned north to Sweet Grass, and crossed back into Canada, at Coutts Alberta. We continued strait north passing through Calgary, and onto Edmonton. We encountered a few problems on the way, but nothing serious. The trip was over and we were paid cash on the spot.
It was about 10:00pm when we got cleared away. Everyone said their goodby's and drifted off, in all directions, leaving four of us not knowing where to go, or where we were. We started to wander in town, and came across the old, York hotel. Not wanting to spend all our money before knowing what we were going to be doing, John went inside to get a price. He came out and said it was $2 dollars a head. He went back in and signed up for a room. During the process, the other three of us snuck in passed the desk doorway and up the stairs. We hid down the hall till John came with the key. We all got in, and there was only one small bed. It was midnight and we were all beat out. We split the cost at 50 cents each. Then just flopped onto the bed crossways, fully dressed. I was jammed into the steel foot post.
Everyone was dead tired and sound asleep, when crashing and banging sounds were coming through the door. We were all wide awake and thought that we were being broken into by a gang. Not one of us made a sound. We just waited and listened. The banging and yelling started again, but we heard that it was directed to the room directly across the hall. All of a sudden, a great loud bass voice yelled, Is there anyone in the room that is not registered? We all just about crapped ourselves. The banging started again, then they yelled, it's the Police, open up or we will smash our way in. Go to hell was the answer. While the door was being smashed in, I found a big fire rope, I opened the window, threw it out and grabbed my bag, and was in the process of climbing down the rope, when the others followed suit. They were coming down a lot faster than I was. It was fortunate for me that it was only the second floor, I hit the street just as the others were crashing down. We took off up the ally and into the next street. We stopped just long enough to say goodby and split up. We never met again. By now it was about 4:00am. I made my way to the railroad station and slept there till day light. Quite a town so far, I must truly be in the wild, wild west.
Eventually, I found the YMCA, and got a bed for 50 cents a day. I spent the next six days wandering the streets looking for a job of any sort. I was getting a little browned off, enough to go to a hotel for a beer or two, to try and relax a bit. I ended up talking to the guy sitting at the next table. One thing led to another, until he asked me, what kind of work do you do? I told him that, I was a long distance, coast to coast, truck driver. He gave me a funny look, then asked if I was available to take on a driving job, hauling gear for a mining exploration outfit. They were still looking for an explosive expert and a truck driver. It meant driving a load up into the YUKON, and help set up a mining site, for at least a year. I promptly bought him another beer. He was not involved in anyway except to have an office beside Mc Dame Creek, Exploration Co.
I was at their door first thing in the morning. They had just hired SMITTY, an explosive expert from the army. He turned into a drifter, and didn't want to be tied down to anyone, or anything, for more than a short period of time. This was the job for him. They called me in next, asked what I was there for? I said that the guy in the next office said that you were looking for a trucker to go to the YUKON. What kind of trucks can you drive? What size of equipment can you handle? My answer was fast, I blurted out, if it's on wheels, I can handle it. I got a strange, quiet look in return. It felt like the time had stood still. Well, we are way behind schedule, now. OK, you're hired. What and where do I do my road test? What road tests? You said that you were a cross country trucker, so lets get to it. Be here first thing, in the morning, and bring your bag. The others will help you load up, and we take off as soon as you are done.
I was there about two hours early. I was just chewing at the bit to get going. They finally showed up, and I was driven across town, to pick up the 1949 Ford, single axle dump truck. The one and only thing that I hated about that truck, and still do. It really takes forty acres to get that thing turned around. If you had to make a really tight turn, forget it. You had to jog back and forth a number of times to get it to turn into a tight spot. Anyway, it had a five-speed transmission, with a two-speed axle, with a short fourth. I was well experienced with that combination, so no problem there. One of the guys jumped in and said he was going to help me load up at the yard. I thought I was impressing him with my driving expertise, till we were approaching the overhead catwalk. He quietly said, that if we were going to continue under the catwalk, that it would be less painful if I stopped and let the dump body back down. When I started off, not being experienced with a dump body, I did not know that the power takeoff was engaged. It started to raise as I drove ahead. I did a panic stop, and he grabbed the takeoff handle and pulled it out of gear. The box floated down and he locked it. I asked him if I still had a job? He just laughed, and said, Kid, we all have to start somewhere. Today is your time to learn something new. Now lets get going. OK?
We arrived at the yard and had the truck loaded in about an hour and a half. I loaded drilling gear, tools, trolley track, and about six, forty-five gallon drums of gas. The Alaska Highway was not a tourist road yet, and the gas stations were one hundred or so miles apart. The farther you traveled North, the more expensive the fuel became. Our supply was to be saved till we left the Alcan, and headed into the interior.
The moment arrived, and this great convoy to the Yukon was on it's way. James R. McM. was the leader of this expedition, he took the lead, in his new chevy car. His fathers' in-law rode along with him, to act as the camp bullcook. Next in line was SMITTY & Chuck, driving a 1949, FORD half ton panel truck. They carried food supplies, and some camping gear. Next came the Swede, a monster of a man. He drove an army, war surplus jeep, with four cases of explosives, and four army surplus tents on a little pup trailer. Then came the big dump truck, piloted by yours truly, Bill W. I carried the Joy drilling machine, track for an ore car, and six drums of gasoline, and assorted tools and gear.
We headed North out of Edmonton, on old highway # two. There was less than one hundred miles of pavement, after which gravel, and dirt roads were the best to be had. We traveled on up to Slave Lake. The road was very rough, and bad washboards, from the many days of rain. We took a cabin for the night.
We were all up and ready to roll by six a.m.. The old man had been up by four-thirty, got the fire going and had breakfast ready, when we got up. Right away you could see that the old man was going to be an appreciated asset to this operation.
Carrying onto Peace River, we stopped at a roadside café, for a bite. They served our lunch, and were bringing, what I thought to be, a glass of weak 3.2% American beer. It turned out to be the local water. I was about to take a drink, when the Swede, stopped me, and asked if, I had ever drunk water that colour before? No. Well don't start now. You had better have boiled tea, or coffee. We can't afford to wait a couple days for you to get off the toilet. I thanked him for the warning, as he was drinking his water.
The big Peace Bridge was an unexpected huge sight. It seemed out of place, in this north country, made you think you were back in the south again. Reality returned, when I cleared the other side and bounced back onto the gravel roadway again.
We worked our way onto Dawson Creek B.C., and laid over for a day. It seemed that, our leader had business to take care of. We got a room and settled in. I took off, to check out the stores, and see if I could find a souvenir. It seemed to be a small frontier town, with dirt streets, and small buildings, like in the movies. The center of town's main intersection had a white wooden post, fenced in with a chain, or roped area (?) surrounding it. It was the Mile "0", the beginning of the Alcan, (Alaska) Highway. I had a small Kodak camera, got a photo of it, and the Dawson Creek jewelry store. (Had to have something with a name on it?)
We finally got on the road again, and went through Fort St John, a bustling, busy place. Tanker, and float, trucks were flying up and down the road, creating their own dust storms. Then just the opposite happened north of town about thirty miles, We ran into a torrential downpour, and all that dust turned into a river of mud. The local truckers were not about to change their pace, as they caught up to me, and passed, they would spray mud so bad that the wipers would not be able to clear the windshield, and I would be flying blind. Had to stop a couple times to wipe down the mud. Once away from the mainlined traffic, where they turned off onto job site trails, the rain flushed the windshield clean.
Once past, Fort Nelson, you could see old army trucks, here and there, abandoned during the construction of the Alcan. If a truck broke down, engines seize up, or a broken axle, even just run out of gas, they would just leave it there. After the war, almost all the locals had army trucks, or equipment. It was cheaper to abandon it than to transport it out.
We carried on up past Fort Nelson, up and over, the Summit Lake Pass. The rains were still coming down in torrents. The road was a slimy mess, till you were climbing the Pass which was a horrendous washboard. The only thing, which kept me from being totally discouraged, was that it was an all new experience, and I soaked it up like it was gold.
Once over the pass, we headed alongside Muncho Lake. The road was cut out of the side of the mountain. Chuck had made this trip before, and showed us a spot where, during the construction of the highway, a bulldozer had gone over the edge, and into the lake. It was down too deep to be retrieved, and was abandoned. It could still barely, be seen, when the lake was smooth and glassy.
We made our way to the Laird Hot Springs. Chuck, again showed us something new. We pulled off the road and made camp for the day. He told everyone to strip down to our shorts, and follow him into the bush. Scary, what the hell is he up too now? Is this going to be some sort of, first time up north initiation? Well we went along with it anyway. There were logs laying end to end through the muskeg. We walked on them for about a hundred yards, and the smell of sulphur was getting stronger, with small areas of low-lying fog appearing. He stopped and said to enter the water, but do it slowly and easy. I began to think there were alligators or some weird monster was about. No, nothing like that happened. The water turned out to be natural hot springs, and was more than 100 degrees. Going in fast could be quite a shock. Once over the shock of surprise, we had a ball. It was about three or four feet deep. They mostly floated around, but I had to show that I was as good a swimmer as Tarzan. I went swimming around like crazy, for about ten, fifteen minutes, then damn near drowned. The steam heat, sucked out, all my energy, and I couldn't even climb out onto the log. Swede saved my butt and dragged me out. He called me a stupid, brainless teenager, that needs to be tuned up. Anyway, I was so beat, that I hit the sleeping bag and flaked out until the next morning.
We carried on toward the Yukon border. Along the way, I noticed that every couple miles or more, the road would take a ninety-degree turn, for no apparent reason. Also, near the odd turn in the road, would be the only road signs around. It would be a very large stop sign, (a red octagon?) With the words, containing, the number of persons killed at this spot, and the date, it happened. That was the only warning of danger, on the highway. Chuck explained, that the right angles, change of direction, in the highway was to make it harder for enemy aircraft (Japanese) to strafe the road in an air attack.
Well we arrived at the Yukon border. I was finally, a true explorer of the north, (So I thought), and already was having visions of becoming the second, MAD TRAPPER OF RAT RIVER.
Watson Lake Yukon, my first stop in the really gold rush country. There was a garage, with fuel pumps, a couple houses and the Watson Lake Hotel. A large timbered, log structure, was to be our home for the next couple days. It had small rooms, a dining area and a large saloon. ( The drinking kind ). A sample of pricing, would be, a beer at the hotel in Toronto, or Edmonton would be around twenty cents a pint. (Good Canadian beer. The bottle of 3.2% US beer in the Yukon was going for $1.25 a pint. The food was priced as bad, a hamburger steak at home, was about 75 cents. The Yukon price was about $ 7.00 a plate. Fortunately the outfit that I was with had to foot the bill.
The second day around, found Jim, (the boss), was off on a business trip, down the road. The rest of us, being true red blooded Canadians, that we were, figured, the best way to help the northern economy, was to patronize the bar, and try hard, to circulate some currency, locally.
The stuff was actually, going down very well by now, and the price of drink, seems to have floated away into oblivion. The bartender was getting embroiled, with a browned off, miner. (Not the under age kind, but the hard rock kind.) A fight broke out between them, and the miner took a shot at the bartender, missed and was dropped, on the spot. A friend of the miner took offence with the bartender hitting his buddy, and retaliated, by hammering the bartender with a hardwood chair. And as usual the bartender had a friend, which took offence to this, and him, in return hit the #two miner, with a beer bottle. Well everything just snowballed, and the place went crazy. Even the Swede got involved, not because he had a friend hurt, but because it was a northern tradition, and he firmly believed in upholding tradition.
In the meantime, Swede had bought a twenty-four, case of beer for the room later. I was still drinking my beer, and watching heads being busted. It was just like in the old western bar room brawls in the movies. This was no movie. The blood was real. Swede worked his way over to where I was and grabbed the case of beer and dragged me out to the porch. He told me to get up on the roof and take his beer. He gave me a boost up, and threw the case up behind me, yelling at me to guard it with my life. Guard it I did, I opened one up right away, and started drinking it, so as no one else could steal it. I think that John Wayne would have been proud of this fight. Well there was a lot of destruction, and the Mounties moved in and cleaned house. A lot of guys went for medical attention and returned to camp. Usually their employers pick up the damage tabs. That gives them a welcomed entry, in the future. This teenager is starting to grow up very fast.
The next day arrived with quite a surprise Jim showed up and told us that there was a change in plans. Drastic changes. The trip up to the Dawson City area, was off. Now we were heading down to Mc Dame Creek. I asked, where in hell is that? He said, that there is a road out of town about twenty miles, turn south, down into British Columbia, and on a bulldozed trail, is a mine called Cassiar. (Asbestos) It is fairly new. Well Mc Dame Creek is the next mountain over. OK? Well to me it wasn't OK. I was all geared up to go to Dawson City, and beyond. Swede reminded me that it was Jim's nickle, and his option. I had no choice but to accept it. (Another lesson learned.)
At that time, the road was not much more than 132 miles, of a bulldozed trail. They had a policy at that time that they would close the road in one direction, for 12 hours, to allow the transport of dangerous goods. Then reverse the direction of travel, for the next 12 hours.
We made our way down to a selected campsite, then pulled in beside Mc Dame Creek, and proceeded to make camp. We cut timber for framing the tents, and started to assemble everything into our private little world. During the construction process, I was given a Swede Saw, to use. Not even seeing one before, I didn't have a clue to its use. I learned pretty quickly of course, by hanging onto a small log in one hand and the saw in the other hand, proceeded to cut the log in half, when on the starting draw, the saw skipped and jumped into my thumb, and promptly opened up my thumb, instead of the log. I can professionally attest to the fact that, my skeleton bones are truly ivory in colour. In a flash, the colour, changed to dark red. The medical facility, at one of these events, consists of the bullcook running over to me and sticking my hand into a pan of Hydrogen Peroxide, and when the fizzing stops, Tie a rag around the wound until it seals itself. (Another lesson learned)
The camp quickly turned into a regular homestead, and everyone settled into a regimental routine. We had just finished supper, and were just relaxing, shooting the breeze, when Smitty asked Jim, now that we are here, just what the hell are we doing here, anyway? Jim then explained, that there will be a bulldozer coming in, in the morning, and will be cutting a trail up the side of the mountain, too within about eight hundred feet from the peak. Up there is supposedly, a great deposit of high grade silver lead. Eighty-five % to be exact, and we are going to bring it out. Well somebody was bound to be rich over this, and we knew, that being the slaves, it wouldn't be us.
During the bulldozing activity, Smitty and Chuck were setting up a storage place for the explosives. Swede was helping out the dozer operator, in the road construction. I now being a true northern pioneer, was given the responsibility of chopping and supplying wood for the camp stoves.
The roadway to the mountain top was completed, and being the professional truck driver in the company, I was elected to take the jeep up top on a trial run. As I was starting out, Smitty yelled at me to wait, he wanted to take a cache of dynamite sticks up to the work site. The little jeep had a main transmission with an auxiliary, and four wheel drives. With all the combination of gears, we still had to burn our way up. Some of the grades were fine for the dozer, but hell in a jeep. We almost went over, on a switchback, but with the newly added weight in our pants, (brown) we seemed to gain more traction. The dozer stayed on for a few more days, working to make the trail more passable.
The work started in earnest now, we found a single boulder of high-grade silver lead, we had to dig it out by hand. It was figured to weigh in at about 100,000 lbs. This is where SMITTY came in. As we dug around the side of the ore piece, SMITTY would light up a cigar, and chew on it like crazy. He would dig down beside the piece and plant a single stick of dynamite, cut a short piece of fuse and attach a cap (nitro) into the stick. Not being any closer to a dynamite explosion, than watching the bad guys, in a Roy Rogers western movie blow up a dam. I promptly ran like hell, to get out of there. Smitty on the other hand, nonchalantly, stuck his cigar to the fuse, and slowly walked to the nearest boulder, sat down behind it, and smoked on his cigar, as the explosion took place. In the meantime I am still in high speed transit, getting out of there. Oh, yes, the ore piece split a slice off as neatly as a butcher, knifing a steak.
The next few days were fairly routine, Smitty blasting, the others, breaking up and bagging the high grade ore. The ore bags were about 18 inches long and 12 inches wide, but weighed about 100 lbs. They were away up on a ledge. The bags were dragged down to the jeep on the ledge, about 200 feet, one at a time. That was part of my job. I weighed in about 172 lbs. when I started. By the time I got into the rhythm, I went up to 225lbs. And was running down to the ledge with one bag under each arm. This one day, Smitty was in a sh** disturbing mood. He knew that I thought, that if you dropped a stick of dynamite, it would blow up. Besides, weren't teenagers built expressly, to be picked on? He seemed to think so. I was leaning against the jeep waiting for a charge to be set, when Smitty wheeled around and drew a stick of dynamite from his rear pocket, ( just like Bat Masterson ) and threw it at me, hitting the corner of the jeep, breaking in half and dropping to the ground. I was as white as the whitest snow, I cut loose and took off down the side of the mountain, and didn't stop till I hit the base camp. There was no bloody way that I was going back up top while he was there. When the crew finished, and came down to camp, they, especially Swedes dragged me over to the freezing creek, and promptly tossed me in. It took about a week, before the big joke wore off. SMITTY said that he just couldn't resist the temptation. He spent the next few days teaching me about dynamite, fuses and caps. What you could do with them, and definitely what you could not do.
The next few weeks went by uneventfully. Jim got a brainstorm, one morning. He figured, why are we using the jeep to bring down four bags of lead at a time. We have this big FORD dump truck sitting here doing nothing. We can get the kid to take it up the mountain and bring a real load down. Hey Bill, do you think that you could get that truck up to the ledge, on the mountain? Of course I can. I'm a professional trucker, that's why you brought me along. ( It's my turn now. I'll show these guys how to, really drive ). Well I fired up the big FORD and took off. By the way, nobody wanted to go up with me. I headed up the trail, dropped to the bottom gears, and started to climb. After running up and down this mountainside, in the jeep, I didn't realize just how narrow this bulldozed trail actually was. I was about a third of the way up, and beyond the end of the tree line. Now out in the open I could see all around me with no obstruction, including the outside dual tire rolling along on empty space. I was scrubbing the wall, and the road still was not wide enough for this truck. One wheel running over the edge, started to give me some concern. (Was I still a stupid teen, biting off more than I could chew?)
There were no turning back, and no backing up, period. As I carried on, the grade was getting steeper and steeper. I would hit a rock, and bounce, making the wheels spin. I ran out of gears just as I was approaching the top ledge. So far, I made it, in one piece.
Now, that I am here, I had better try and get this thing turned around. As I mentioned earlier, you need forty acres to turn this thing around. Well now, I had about a truck and a half in length, on this ledge. I was moving back and forth for about 3 feet, cranking and turning. (It had the old manual steering, by the way.) I was just half around, when I ran out of a ledge. I was pointing away from the mountain, and facing outer space, nothing under the front of me, when I made my grave mistake, - I thought that I was in revers, when actually I was in forward. All that jogging back and forth, had confused me. I stepped on the gas, and expecting to go back, shot forward, with the front end going over the edge. Frantically, I slammed on the brake, white knuckled the steering wheel and, hung on for dear life. I could not see directly below me. Just as well, it was about 1500 feet down to the first outcrop of rock. Looking strait ahead, all I could see was an awful lot of fresh air. Then beyond that was Cassiar Asbestos Mine, where they were shearing the top of the mountain off. The only thing that went through my mind at this point was, It's time to die, and my exploration days, in the north are about to end.
The brakes were a vacuum over hydraulic type, if the engine, decided to really idle down, and quit, the brakes would to. With one foot on the clutch and the other pushing the brakes peddle through the floor, how am I going to get out of this mess alive. The older trucks had a manual choke for the engine, and they usually had a manual throttle, to control the speed, when using the power take off. I grabbed for the throttle, pulled it out all the way. With the engine screaming, I let the clutch out, and the brake off at the same time. The rear wheels started to spin, and jump and dig in. The front end started to sink over the edge, but with the drive wheels bouncing up and down, the front end made one jump, and came back onto the ledge. With the throttle still at full, the truck tried to climb the bank behind me. I pushed the throttle in, and got the engine back to normal. There was no room to get out of the truck, so had to keep jogging back and forth, till I finished the turnaround. Promptly got out and kissed the ground. ( Another lesson learned ) Swede was on his way up in the jeep to give me a hand to load. He saw what happened, and would not let me load. He said that the truck was too big for the trail, and loaded, I would not make it, back alive. We got the equipment back down to the base camp, parked it. Swede called me over to his tent and gave me one of his prize beers, and told me that I earned it.
We worked on, for another few weeks, with nothing really serious happening. Then BOOM, while working on the mountain, out of nowhere, came a total, whiteout blizzard. The snow came down fast and furious. We had to leave the jeep, and equipment up there. The snow was piling up very fast, too fast to drive down safely. We made our way back down on foot. Once we got below the tree line, the snow turned into heavy rain. The snow was wet and heavy, and piled up on our rest tent, till it collapsed, from the weight.
It was three days before we could get the equipment, and jeep down. With this particular job site, it had to be shut down for the winter. You just could not work, the top of this mountain, with what we had. We spent the next two weeks, shipping the ore down to Helena Montana, for smelting. It was a good deal for a few truckers heading south, to take a return load with them. After the ore was on it's way, we dismantled our camp, loaded up, and headed for the Watson Lake Hotel, for one final party, before heading south.
After this episode was over, and I had made a pocket full of money, I started to hitchhike back to Toronto. I got a lift with a bed bug hauler, (moving vans) He was in a hurry to get to Halifax, upon finding out that I was a PROFESSIONAL truck driver, he promptly jumped into the bunk, and yelled out, that it was my turn to drive, and I ended up running with him for the next three months, BUT, that's another story. ----------
William ( Diesel Gypsy ) Weatherstone.