Holberg, BC

As I stood at the prow of the Nimpkish as it made it’s way up Holberg Inlet, I marvelled at the expanse of forest and briny water before me. There had been no sign of civilisation since our departure from Coal Harbour that morning and, I was aware that our destination, Holberg, one of the most northern settlements of Vancouver Island, was more cut off from the world than any other place which I had ever lived, accessible only by boat, barge, logging road, or, the occasional plane or helicopter.

Oddly enough, I was feeling very self-possessed - I suppose my "newlywed" sense of adventure had overcome any misgivings I should have had about adapting to life in the wilds of British Columbia. In any case, it was too late - to return home, at that point, would have meant a wrestling match with the captain of the Nimpkish, a war of words with my husband of but a few months, and a trip consisting of a series of bus and plane rides back to North Bay - three thousand and more miles to the east!

Holberg lay in the shadow of a huge horseshoe of mountains, at the very end of the northernmost arm of Quatisino Sound; namely Holberg Inlet or "chuck" as we later learned to call it. As we drew near, on that early March afternoon, my husband explained that the tiny village on the banks of the Goodspeed River, was logging community, and that the Canadian Forces Station was but a short two miles up the gravel road that adjoined the length of pier jutting out from shore.

It would be six months before we were assigned married quarters, and so, during the interval preceding our good fortune of obtaining a two bedroom house, we rented two dwellings of opposing decor – one with fireplace, the other without. It was the two month enforced occupancy of the later that set the tone for my successful adaptation to a difficult environment.

It sat, neatly, on the ledge of a knoll above a tree-guarded pond. And when I first set eyes on the trailer itself, I wasn’t too concerned about it’s size as I imagined that the partition on its left flank would ensure adequate space and comfort. The partition was so large, as a matter of fact, that the electric heater never succeeded in removing the dampness and cold. So within a short period of time, we closed the door on this man-made cooler and retreated to the cramped quarters of our 12’ X 24’ trailer. After a few weeks of sleeping in what I caustically called our "wall to wall" bed, we moved our sleeping quarters to the kitchen-living-room area, and placed the kitchen table in the alcove that had once been allocated for our bed. The bathroom was also marshmallow size and, that most decorative feature of the whole trailer was the hand painted, tattered drapes.

Much of my time was spent gazing out the window watching the mood of the pond as it was repeatedly disturbed by pelting rain or made magically alive with the rays of a slowly approaching summer sun. Every morning when I peered out to watch the mist lifting off the pond, with the warming of the day, I imagine my body caught up, and cradled in it’s folds, as it escaped across the forest floor towards Mt. Brandes, and the mountains beyond. On nicer days I would venture out to sit just above the pond, on a small plot of velvety grass adjacent to the trailer. During these times, grey jays, looking for a free handout, kept me company with their chattering and antics, until, inevitable, the damp and cold chased me back into my drab and dreary household. That pond, no matter what it’s mood, calmed me inexplicably, and as the days wore on, filled me with a desire to explore the forest and streams surrounding the small enclave.

My love affair with Holberg had begun.

Holberg, habitat of the sinuous cougar, the tiny white tailed island deer, the killer whale, the spawning salmon, the hefty halibut, the black bear, and the soaring eagle. A wondrous land of towering red cedar, verdant moss, tangled salmonberry bushes, rushing steams, and trailing fern. A place of history too, where Scandinavian settlers had once tried to carve a living from farming and fishing, and failed, leaving ghostly reminders of passage, in the from of abandoned houses and overgrown trails, stretching from Cape Scott at the northern tip of the Island to San Josef Bay, and finally to Holberg itself. A fly-free, snake-free, snow-free environment blessed with idyllic summers, and burdened with a rainy winter season that could drive a person to madness if he dare let it.

Day after day the deluge came down, with temperatures hovering at 40 – 50° F. Children, protectively attired in boots and other rain gear, bicycled and played in the rain for hours; walking and bicycling in the incessant downpours, was the accepted mode of adult behaviour too! Mud-spattered legs over ruled the complaint about the weather on most days and I became the envy of all spattered females in Holberg whenever I wore a pair of gray vinyl stretch boots that although ludicrously flimsy, had the saving grace of covering almost the whole of my leg!

My boots and my walks often took me to a favourite fishing spot on the bank of the San Josef river, where looking down from a height of 10’ – 12’, I would watch the steelheads manoeuvre back and forth along the stream. The bank was part of a small clearing right in the heart of a red cedar grove, and on the rare occasion, when the winter sun warmed its dewy dimness, the clearing became jewel-like and unforgettable. In any state, it was a place for nymphs and fairies, so much so, that I had a tendency to forget the existence of a tree-camouflaged dump on the opposite bank, where black bears foraged for food!

This retreat, and many other ventures made into various areas of the rain-sodden forest never ceased to delight me and only added to the affinity for nature that I had discovered near the pond of that tiny trailer a few months before. I was never afraid, for some reason, the solidity of the giant cedars, and the lush carped of moss, fallen trees, and fern were reassuring. It was always quiet that followed me; never bears or cougars.

In early April of 1969, more than a year after our arrival in Holberg, my father came to visit; he too, fell in love with the wild unspoiled nature of the place. Fair weather or foul, he would walk the 1.5 miles to San Josef River but unlike his daughter, was aware of the dangers of getting lost or attacked by a bear or cougar.

One day, as I arrived home from a fruitless attempt to intercept my husband and his Scout troop at Andersen’s Farm, my father’s concerned face met me at the door. "I was just heading out to look for you!" he said, in a strained voice.

I remember looking at him in bewilderment, then finally contritely, as I recognised with certainty, that his concern had been justified.

You see, to get to Andersen’s Farm, an old settlement on the San Josef Trail, I had to walk down a two mile stretch of logging road, and then over three miles of a narrow salmonberry-shrouded path, which in the 1920’s had been hand-built road wide enough for supply wagons and the like. Passing by Cordy’s, I had then wandered on to Ronning’s Landing, for I was always intrigued by the array of shrub and foliage to be found there. (Apparently, the Ronnings, now long gone, had sent all over the world for rare specimens of plants and trees. How and where this mainly ever managed to collect these horticultural wonders, is an amazing mystery. But once planted they thrived!). It was the monkey trees on either side of the front door of the weather-beaten frame house and sagging stoop that most fascinated me. Each branch of the coniferous tree curled upward as it’s tip in the same manner in which a monkey places it’s tail as it swings from branch to branch in other rainforests of the world… My tree viewing complete, and there having been no obvious sing of an approaching Scout troop or husband, I had decided against walking towards Andersen’s and instead, retraced my steps as far as Cordy’s about one-half mile back along the trail.

Bill Cordy, a recluse, was the last of the group of settlers that had fought so hard to make a livelihood off this untameable land. His house, at the time I stopped in 1969, was located a few feet from the San Josef trail, and backed by a small plot of meadow-like grass. The house was also a weather-beaten grey, but still of solid construction, and it’s owner greeted me at the door with a gentle, courteous manner.

It was Cordy that recalled how a cougar had, one winter’s day, tried to enter his house by clawing down the door. Even so, the significance of his story never bothered me until I met my father’s concern face to face.

In fact, upon leaving Cordy’s, I had walked the remaining 1.5 miles down the trail to reach the logging road, and farther down, nonchalantly stopping to view Swan Lake. It was a habit to check in on the lake, before heading home, not because it possessed any particular grandeur, in as much as I had been told that it was a migratory stopping place for whistling swans, and to have missed such a sighting, for me, would have been catastrophic.

It so happened, on this occasion, that a young couple were there enjoying an impromptu picnic with their two toddlers. We talked while they finished eating and they mentioned that they were newcomers; barely two weeks had passed since their arrival. It was with dismay, therefore, that I learned, a few days later, that the husband had drowned in the "chuck" when the outboard vessel in which he and another friend, were fishing, was swamped by water coming over the engine-end of the boat. The other man, paradoxically, survived by hanging on to an outcropping of rock in the area where the boat sank. I am not sure of all the circumstances surrounding the tragedy, but I did hear, that at high tide, this outcropping was usually covered with more than a few fee of saltwater. Fortunately, the man was rescued before that eventuality could occur.

My husband, for some reason, only went fishing in the inlet on two or three occasions during the time we spend in Holberg. He preferred to try his luck on the San Josef and Goodspeed where steelhead, and salmon, in season abounded. Goldie, our Labrador, always went with him. One day, after such a venture, Goldie came home with her tail hanging in a loop instead of "up in a loop", and in response to my query, my husband recounted how he had let Goldie go ahead on the trail, and shortly afterwards had passed potato Kelly. As soon as he mentioned Potato Kelly, I know what had happened. Reportedly, this man had been a prisoner-of-war during WWII and had found his way to Holberg after his release, only to become a hermit, whose sole food was supposedly potatoes. At any rate, his POW days had ingrained in him a definite hatred of dogs, and that day on the trail, he had swung his machete with such force, that he had dislodged Goldie’s tailbone. Goldie looked ridiculous for a few days but, much to our relief her tail healed and, once again, wagged at full mast.

Sometime later, my husband told me about another Goldie incident near Andersen Farm, where he had been camping with the Scouts. Goldie had started yapping in the middle of the night, my husband had hurriedly grabbed his machete, prepared at all cost to defend himself and the boys in his care. After a long breath-held the jangle of cowbells could be heard, and a beam of light could be see, followed by the shadowy figure a man and a few cows, as they made their way in the dead of the night, over the trail; presumably to pasture the animals at the abandoned farm. Where the man with the cows came from was never revealed, but as my husband maintained, the only method of transportation into Holberg would have been by barge via Holberg Inlet. The question that remained unanswerable was the "where-for" of this man’s unusual task.

If there was drama and pathos in Holberg, there were also moments, thankfully, of comic relief. Like the time, the Bregers and us, went out to find a Christmas tree. We came back with three – a scrawny one for us, and two for them, which they immediately tied together to form the semblance of one bushy tree. In a land of coniferous giants, we had had a most miserable time finding bushy "babies".

That same holiday season, on New Year’s Eve, for the first time in many years, the thermometer dipped down so low that the habitual rain was replaced by a light snowfall. By early afternoon, many women were at the panic stage, wandering how they would be able to wash their hair in time for the festivities; The main water line, which was located above ground had frozen solid, and the water supply to all housing had consequently been cut off. In mid-afternoon water trucks delivered water to anxious tenants, and that particular problem was resolved. Meanwhile a large volunteer force had been called out to build fires under the water main in an effort to thaw it. The idea worked well, so much so, that water supply was restored shortly before the time that people allot for taking a hot shower prior to attending any event celebrating the advent of the New Year. If some of the men drank too much that night, they may have had good reason; cougars, attracted to the warming pipeline, had sought reprieve from cold and snow by lying down on the watermain.

During the months that we were in Holberg, we had also acquired an ebony-coloured cat, called Sylvester. In due time we succeeded in training Sylvester to come in the kitchen window, thereby eliminating the necessity of getting up in the night to let the creature in. This practice stopped abruptly, however, when one night, "Sylvester" was followed by three nocturnal visitors – all Tomcats! Keeping the window closed was an easy decision - changing Sylvester’s name was not… So Sylvester she remained!

Another family problem arose the day that I flung a juice jug at my husband for not holding his fork right. Everywhere in the world, at any time, any number of happy couples are having a tiff – and such was the case when, in an exasperating moment, on a Tuesday, I threw the jug. And in the next breath, defiantly flung at him that I was packing. As I frantically tried to get a suitcase from the hall attic, my husband complacently informed me that the Nimpkish didn’t leave on any day but Friday! The irony of trying to arrange Tuesday’s fights on Thursday, and being to short, event with the aid of a step-ladder, to procure the most vital piece of equipment necessary to a dignified departure!

In June of 1969, I travelled with my husband down the Holberg Inlet for the last time but this time, in the Impish. (Someone of a similar nature had arranged the removal of the "N" and "K" off the nameplate of the Nimpkish). As the vessel slowly made its way down the fjord, visions of the pod of whales I had once see the spawning salmon, as well as the eagles that I had often watched filled my mind and I realised that Holberg had been a very unique experience. A wealth of memories, enduring friendships, and an increased affinity for nature and simplicity had been it'’ legacy; a legacy that continues to this day, to make my life whole and my spirit strong.

Thank you, Holberg.

Signed: Heather Patry

By-line: This article was once published in the Seagull Courier in the 80s. Heather was the wife of Cpl Simon Patry, Admin. Clerk in Holberg 1967 – 69. He worked in the Station Orderly Room for F/L George Holland Admin. O and in the MSE Orderly Room for WO Cuthbert. He also worked in the Ops Orderly Room up the hill for "I am not sure of" typing those darn weekly radar "blip scan" messages which had to be redone so many times because I made so many mistakes. Was the Scout Leader and cleared with the only one troop in Holberg the San Josef bay trail one summer. Was also part of the SAR ground search team.

From Holberg we were posted to Bermuda, our son was conceived in Holberg and born in Bermuda, got a sun tan there and never lost it.