It had been 67 years since I lived on Vancouver Island and was excited to be going back. I had planned to leave tomorrow – Monday – but heavy snow was forecasted for Coquihalla highway Sunday night. It was sunny and dry at noon and, if I left right away, I could be out of the mountains and in Horseshoe Bay in time for the 6:30 ferry.
My memories of life in Courtenay in the late fifties and early sixties didn’t include inclement weather. If fact, I wrote a column for the Vancouver Sun explaining how the clouds passed over the eastern slopes of the Island and dropped their loads on Vancouver and the Fraser Valley. It never snowed seriously on Vancouver Island. If I could get to Vancouver, I’d be home free. No worry about weather or roads on the coast.
Oh yeah! The trip through the mountains was great. The mountain highway was bare and dry all the way to Langley. From there to the ferry at Horseshoe Bay, the road was slippery and the driving a bit hairy. No wonder I slid. When I arrived at the ferry line-up, I got out and checked my tires. They had summer treads. I had purchased and paid for winter tires two months earlier in Oroville, Washington, but the dealer had installed regular summer tires. Oh well, once off the ferry in Nanaimo, everything would be fine; except that being late for the ferry meant I wouldn’t get to my son Shane’s house in Campbell River until 11 p.m.
I was wrong again! The snow was even deeper, falling faster, and with large Christmas-y flakes. Much worse than it had been in Vancouver. My fear increased dramatically the moment my van started down the ramp. The road off the ferry ran along the edge of a huge parking area that leads out onto the road up a hill to the main highway. There were already three cars on the side of the curve out of the lot, unable to get up the slope. I passed them and climbed the hill at eight km an hour with tires spinning for three blocks to the main highway. I made a right turn onto the highway through the red light.
The highway was even more fearful with traffic slipping and sliding ahead of and behind me, and four wheelers attempting to pass on the side. There appeared to be at least 25 cm of snow, with deep traffic ruts iced on the bottom. As long as I kept my speed at 30-40 km/h, and no one stopped in front of me, I was okay but very tense. The least incline resulted in spinning tires and a sliding back end.
I wanted to stop at a motel, but all driveways were plugged with snow. I’d get stuck if I left the highway. So, for the next 150 km, I was trapped in a slippery hell on the new Upper Island Highway with cars piled up behind me. Every once in a while, one or more brave souls with four-wheel drive, pulled out and passed me.
It got worse when we caught up to three snow plows running side-by-side, about 40 km south of Courtenay, blocking the entire highway as they inched along. You’d think following a snowplow in a blizzard would make driving easier. Normally, yes, but not tonight. The highway without snow was sheer ice and the way ahead resembled a bumper-car arena.
When I got to the Courtenay exit, I went the rest of the way to Campbell River on the old highway. I couldn’t find the map with Shane’s address. But if I went into the city via the old highway from Courtenay, I might remember the route. But what if the old highway was even worse than the new one? If it was, I didn’t think I would have been able to get back up to the main highway. I had to take a chance. I headed down the hill to Courtenay.
Finally, I had made a right decision. The old highway was 10 times better than the main upper highway. I was able to drive the rest of the way at speeds 80 km/h with no problems.
It was 1:30 a.m. Monday morning when I got to Campbell River and everything was closed. I couldn’t remember the name of the street Shane lived on, but I knew if I saw a map – or the name of the street on a sign – I would recognize it. After searching fruitlessly for a half hour, I was running out of gas and there wasn’t a soul to ask for directions, or an open service station. The gas warning light was on.
I finally found a 7/11 store, but it didn’t have gas pumps and the East-Indian kid on duty couldn’t understand a word I said. After a minute or so, I thought about the police. There’d be someone on duty at the station. I asked “police?” and he pointed up the street. “There,” he said. Then, as I walked to the door, he added, “This side.”
I drove a few blocks and parked in front of the door. The outside phone box worked, and an officer eventually came out and let me in to the reception area.
Instead of trying to help me though, he wanted to find out about Shane’s and my background. An hour-and-a-half later, he was still in a locked off area down the hall, where I could see him with his feet up on a desk.
I’d had enough. He’d been chatting on the phone on and off for too long. In the meantime, I’d been scanning a street map he’d left with me and found what might be Shane’s street. The house number 695 had been teasing my brain. I decided to leave without waiting to say goodbye. I went outside – locking myself out of the station – and used the phone box to ask the receptionist to thank the officer for me.
The map showed the likely street running parallel and downhill to the one I was on. I would recognize the name when I got to it, so I drove to the first major intersection, not wanting to get stuck on an unplowed side street. Turning downhill, I slid four blocks at about eight km/h. Then, lo and behold, the front of Shane’s house was directly ahead (he’d sent me photos) on the other side of the dead-end street. I drove in behind his 4X4 truck. Safe at last, right?
Wrong!
I went to the door and rang the bell. No answer. Pounded on the door. No answer. Rang the bell and kicked the door. No answer. After repeating for 10 minutes or so, I decided to go to a motel to get some sleep.
I didn’t know where the motels were, so I backtracked. Now the gas light was blinking. I’d passed a Chevron station earlier that I’d thought was closed, although the pump lights had been on. Not knowing what else to do, I went back to it and pulled up to the pump. It was lit but closed.
I hadn’t seen a motel vacancy sign all night, but now good fortune was on my side. Right behind the service station was The Discovery, an expensive hotel I’d stayed at years ago. My debit cards were getting low, but I had no choice now. I couldn’t go any farther. If we ran out of gas, my chihuahua, Zoe, and I would freeze to death on the side of the road.
In the morning, I used the hotel’s Yellow Pages to find the phone number of my son’s office, but nobody answered. I got $20 worth of gas from the service station that was now open and found my way back to Shane’s place.
His truck was gone. It was now 10 a.m., so I decided to stay right there, letting the van idle for 10 or 15 minutes every hour. Shane had told me he’d been working 10 hours a day, so he should be home by 6 p.m. I only had nine litres of gas. It wouldn’t last if he didn’t return by 8 p.m., at the latest.
Shane is the company field manager and could very well be out of town troubleshooting or something. Maybe as far away as Port Hardy, over 200 km north and might stay there overnight. If that was the case, he’d find two dead bodies in the van in his driveway, frozen stiff.
“Why the hell didn’t I fill the gas tank when I had the chance?” I asked myself over and over.
Fortunately, my son arrived home at 2 p.m. and everything turned out great. I’d had a frightful, life-threatening adventure and lived. Wasn’t that why I so desperately wanted to move back to Vancouver Island anyway – for adventure? It was merely an unexpected twist on my previous adventures as a commercial abalone and sea urchin diver in the waters in and around Vancouver Island.
All’s well that ends well.
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