by Dom Joly
I gave him my damage deposit and asked him, ‘What happens if I hit Ogopogo and sink the boat?’
‘Then you won’t be getting this deposit back,’ he said without hesitation.
‘But if Ogopogo attacks me then it’s not my fault . . . Do you have a special clause for that?’
He looked at me as though I was a lunatic and I didn’t want to push the issue as I wanted to get on the boat. I bade him farewell and put-putted out of the marina.
The lake was rough – very rough – and my little boat and I started to be tossed about quite violently. I looked around. Mine was the only boat on the whole lake. Was this a wise thing to be doing? I looked up at the steep sides of the valley that towered high up above the dark water and I felt very, very tiny in my little vessel. I gunned the engine and the boat speeded up, bumping fast across endless advancing walls of enemy waves.
About ten minutes in and the lake got even rougher. Huge waves battered the front of the boat and I was forced to slow right down. The clouds above me darkened and the boat started to be chucked about like a piece of driftwood. I suddenly got nervous. What was I doing here? There was nobody about to help me if I got tipped over, and the water was ice-cold. It would definitely get me before Ogopogo did.
I remembered a story that I’d read in Arlene Gaal’s book, about the local Indian tribe. They would always take a small animal out with them in a canoe so that, should the monster they called the N’ha-a-itk whip up a storm, they could throw the poor thing overboard as an appeasing sacrifice. I’d brought nothing with me, not even a sandwich. There’d been a McDonald’s on the edge of Penticton: maybe I could have could have sacrificed some chicken nuggets. (The added problem here being that I’m not convinced those are actually made from real birds.)
To my right, the landscape looked rather nightmarish. Back in 2003 a huge fire laid waste to the forest. Now the stark grey rock is littered with the burnt skeletons of dead trees. It was crazy but I was starting to get very spooked. I put the radio on to try and calm myself down a bit but I couldn’t get anything except white noise that only increased my self-imposed paranoia. The lake was crazy rough now and I tried to hug the barren, burnt shoreline to get some calmer water. The cliffs loomed over me like predatory giants and I got really freaked out by a weird noise. It sounded like howling – evil howling. Then I realized that it was just one of the ropes holding my canopy. It had snapped at the attachment and was now juddering in the wind and making an odd sound – odd, but not howling and certainly not evil. I looked down into the water: my depth finder told me that it was 600 feet deep. I tried to man up and carried on rounding Squally Point, where the lake turned right. As I did so, I spotted my goal: Rattlesnake Island was dead ahead.
I approached it gingerly. It was ridiculous but I was actually quite scared. My heart was racing and my mouth had gone completely dry. Obviously my own sighting yesterday wasn’t helping. I got close and cut the engine. The waves had abated a little and I took a good look at the island. This appeared to be a barren piece of terrain, no more than a rock, really, with a lone scraggly tree clinging to it. There were no signs of either rattlesnakes or Ogopogo. I pulled out my iPhone and started filming. This was mainly so I could speak and break the silence that was starting to become a little oppressive.
Ogopogo is (or are) rumoured to live in a cave that leads into a series of tunnels starting just below the island. Sonar scans have shown a large hole down there. Ogopogo enthusiasts claim that this is why no bodies of these creatures are ever found: because they retreat inside to die. I say ‘creatures’ because there would have to be several. For something to exist for so long in this lake it would have to breed, start a family, get a mortgage . . .
I kept filming and started shouting, ‘Hello, Ogopogo!’ at the top of my voice. I had now clearly lost my mind. I gunned the motor and decided to try to navigate the very narrow channel between the island and the black, burnt mainland. This was a really stupid thing to do, as I had no charts on board and the depth finder would tell me about jutting rocks only when it was too late. I went for it anyway and an invisible current immediately caught the vessel and powered me through. I held my breath. I really didn’t want to hit anything. The idea of having to get into the dark, cold water beneath me was not pleasant. I was immensely relieved when I got through and was back in safe waters. I felt like I was in some weird episode of Scooby Doo. I laughed out loud but it sounded a little hollow on my own. I suddenly longed for human company and started to head back to Penticton. As I rounded Squally Point the lake suddenly calmed itself. I zoomed away fast from Rattlesnake Island and kept to the western shoreline on the way back, which is populated and felt safer than the barren eastern shore. Finally I spotted the two tall buildings behind the casino on Penticton Beach and breathed a sigh of relief. I had survived my first ill-prepared expedition on Lake Okanagan. I tied the boat to the dock and called the boat guy on his mobile. He was down to meet me about fifteen minutes later. We had a little chat as he checked the boat for damage. He told me about the divers who worked on the new bridge that replaced the old floating one between West Kelowna and Kelowna itself.
‘A lot of them quit. They said it was scary and that there were some seriously big things swimming around down there. Some say it’s a sturgeon but nobody has ever caught one. The visibility is limited but these guys are not spooked easily. At least three I knew quit as they were so freaked out.’
I nodded and laughed as though they were weak idiots. I didn’t tell him about just how freaked out I’d been about an hour ago just floating on top of the water. The idea of getting under the dark water (and I love scuba diving) was pretty unthinkable to me.
I said my goodbyes and got in the car. As I drove my phone rang. It was the aunt of an acquaintance back in London who had grown up in the Okanagan. I’d emailed her saying I couldn’t find a boat to rent and she’d contacted her family. Now they were offering to take me to Rattlesnake Island on their family boat. I was too embarrassed to tell them I’d found a rental guy and had just been. So I agreed to meet them at Peachland marina at three-thirty that afternoon – I was going back out there . . .
Peachland is a pretty little community right on the lake directly opposite Rattlesnake Island. There are actually two marinas, one rather grandly calling itself a ‘yacht club’ and the other seemingly a little less exclusive. I parked my car and sat waiting. At almost exactly three-thirty I saw an old speedboat with two men in it zoom towards the locked marina. Since there were no other boats on the lake I presumed these had to be my guys. I peered at them through the fence and one shouted, ‘You from London?’ I nodded and they told me to come down. I indicated that I couldn’t and so they told me to walk down the road towards the beach where they’d pick me up.
As I clambered aboard the old speedboat I noticed it was covered from front to back in weird blue carpeting. Sort of the nautical equivalent of the avocado bathroom set. The guys introduced themselves: Al and Kevin. They were both in their mid-fifties and very friendly. Al had been born in the valley and Kevin had moved there in 1985.
They had absolutely no idea why I was in the Okanagan. Al had received an email from London asking if they could help me out, so here they were. I filled them in on my mission and they both started laughing – in a good way.
Another dramatic change in the weather meant it was now a beautiful sunny day. The sun glinted off the water and the lake was almost enticing.
I asked Al and Kevin whether either of them had seen Ogopogo.
‘No, but I’ve seen the Sasquatch. Me and my son saw one on a hunting trip only an hour and a half from here.’ Kevin looked serious for a second. I asked him what the Bigfoot looked like.
‘He looked like a big drunken Irishman – about eight feet tall, covered in red hair with a fast lolloping walk. He just stared right at us for a good twenty seconds and then made off into the trees . . .’ This was promising: I felt these guys wouldn’t think I was mad.
I a
sked them about Ogopogo again. Did they know anybody who had seen anything? They’d both seen big wakes in the lake but not ‘the humps’ – though both of them knew people who had. Kevin started talking again.
‘Anyone local believes in Ogopogo. It’s the fucking Albertans coming here who all poo-poo it. The thing is, nobody’s scared of Ogopogo. It’s not a monster; monsters kill people. It’s a creature, a USO [unidentified swimming object], but not a monster.’
I nodded and looked at the fast-approaching Rattlesnake Island. It was unbelievable. In the bright sunlight it looked like a totally different place. The water lapping around it was crystal blue and sparkling. It was lovely. We motored around it, just as I had that morning.
‘Do you want to see the pyramid?’ asked Kevin.
‘The what?’ I said.
‘Wait and see.’
We beached the boat in a perfect little harbour hidden behind two protruding rocks. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. We hopped off the boat and clambered up the steep slope towards the island’s summit. As we climbed I spotted the remains of something man-made. It almost looked like an overgrown crazy-golf course. It couldn’t be, of course. This was the forbidden place, the sacred home of the monster. How could there be a crazy-golf course here? We got to the top of the island and Al was standing on a big stone pedestal. This was clearly man-made. I asked him what it was.
‘It was the pyramid,’ replied Al. ‘Eddy Haymour’s pyramid . . .’ He was smiling at me.
‘Sorry, I’m being thick, but I don’t understand what you mean. Who’s Eddy Haymour and why are there the remains of a pyramid and a crazy-golf course here?’
It turned out that back in the early 1970s a Lebanese man, Eddy Haymour, moved to the Okanagan Valley. He had emigrated to Canada and had done rather well setting up a chain of barber shops in Edmonton. He’d caused quite a stir, however, in the white-bread Okanagan community because he was, to say the least, quite a character. After a little while living in the valley Eddy noticed Rattlesnake Island and decided to buy it and turn it into a Middle Eastern theme park. Al started to tell me about the things that Eddy had either planned or actually built for the park and I just didn’t believe him. He suggested that I try to find a copy of Eddy Haymour’s life story, From Nut House to Castle.
I later managed to get a copy from a second-hand bookstore in town. Here is Eddy’s description of what he wanted for the island:
On the four-point-five acre island would be great landscaping with beautiful gardens. There was to be a forty-six-feet long, twenty-six-feet high concrete structure in the form of a camel with a hollow stomach where thirty-nine flavors of ice cream would be served. You could peek out of the windows of the camel’s eyes, music would come from his mouth and the garbage from his tail. The washroom would be in the legs. All the cultures of the Middle East would be represented; India by a miniature Taj Mahal; Kuwait by fountains; minarets would depict Saudi Arabia; and there would be a large pyramid for Egypt. In a huge tent Middle Eastern films and other entertainment would be presented. Kids could go around the island on ponies led by Arab storytellers, or in a chariot pulled by a white horse. There would be a toddlers swimming pool with babysitters and lifeguards. I figured I needed something familiar to Canadians so I designed a unique miniature golf course, all landscaped and each hole relating to an Arab landmark. I wanted to have a small submarine to take kids down to the underwater cave, home of Ogopogo . . .
‘Did it actually open?’ I asked Al.
Al laughed and said that the story got even weirder. The theme park did half open – for one day. The pyramid and the camel and various other bits were built, and locals came over for the grand opening, but the local British Columbian government then stepped in and closed Eddy’s island down. He had clearly rubbed some important local people up the wrong way. They tried to change the zoning for the island, refused him ferry permits to take people over there and then challenged his plans for sanitation facilities. Eddy was left with a lot of debts and no way to pay them off as it became clear that officialdom was never going to let him open the island properly. Things spiralled out of control. Eddy’s wife left him and then the government inserted an agent provocateur to make friends with Eddy and get him to make threats against the government. Eddy was thrown into a nut house and the government forced him to sell them back the island at a tiny percentage of its actual value.
I couldn’t believe this kind of thing went on in straight-laced, well-behaved Canada.
‘It gets even worse . . .’ said Al.
It was eventually agreed that Eddy Haymour would be released if he left Canada. He went back to Lebanon where, clearly, his resentment at the way he had been treated by the country he’d been so proud to make his home – and become a citizen of – boiled over. Lebanon was just starting the slide into civil war and there were armed factions all over the country. Eddy got together a couple of his cousins and forcibly took over the Canadian Embassy in Beirut, holding thirty hostages for three days. Following slightly panicky negotiations, Eddy released the hostages and, unbelievably, was allowed back into Canada, where he spent ten years fighting his case through the courts. He eventually won; Eddy was awarded damages and it was admitted that the government had behaved appallingly towards him. Eddy never got Rattlesnake Island back, though. He built a ‘castle’ on the shore opposite the island, which he turned into a hotel. However, he never forgot his island and eventually had a thirty-foot statue of himself built and placed outside his castle pointing at it.
I longed to know what had happened to Eddy’s statue when he died but neither Al nor Kevin knew its whereabouts.
Back on the boat we cruised around Rattlesnake Island again and checked Squally Point. This was the place where the local Indians claimed Ogopogo was most often sighted. We saw nothing.
Later Kevin and Al dropped me off at the little beach. Back at my hotel I sat on my balcony with a bottle of Sumac Ridge and stared at the lake. I gave up when the bottle was empty and it started to get dark.
The following morning I checked out and drove to the big city: Kelowna. My appointment with Arlene Gaal was at two-thirty that afternoon. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect but she definitely believed in the beast and was sure to have something to say.
With the morning to kill in Kelowna, I decided to wander around and get my bearings. I ambled down the main street and ended up at the lakeside park where the statue of Ogopogo was. On an adjacent patch of grass, facing a raised concrete step, was gathered a small crowd of people I don’t think it would be unfair to describe as shabby. They were all listening to a black man wearing a long leather trenchcoat and dirty dreadlocks who was shouting into a microphone. Intrigued, I approached the scene. Several people were carrying placards. One of these read, ‘Marx said there’d be days like this’; another said, ‘Decolonize the vallley’.
For some reason it really irritated me that the word ‘valley’ was misspelt. I wandered up to the man in a gasmask who was carrying it and pointed to the sign.
‘It’s spelt wrong,’ I said, smiling.
‘What is?’ came the slightly Darth Vader-esque voice behind the mask.
‘“Valley” . . . You’ve spelt it with three ls and it should be just two.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ said the gasmask.
‘Only trying to help,’ I replied, edging away.
About twenty yards away was another gentleman in a gasmask. His sign read, ‘Capitalism – stop that sh*t’. However angry he was, the Canadian in him had forced him to asterisk the i in shit.
I listened to the speeches for a while. It was only after about ten minutes that I worked out what this was all about. It was an Occupy Kelowna demonstration, taking its lead from the Occupy Wall Street demos in New York that were being reproduced all over the world. There seemed to be a general dislike of plutocracy, the rich, CEOs, bankers . . . Basically the usual suspects.
Some guy stood up to talk about some new miracle energy that could power his home. A
nother guy got up and started going on about the postal service and how they should all go on strike. Thankfully the stench of patchouli oil in the air was thick enough to mask the omnipresent BO.
The Rasta, who seemed to be the MC of the event, was back up speaking.
‘Guys, anybody who wants to speak – anybody – please don’t be shy, just get up here and say your piece. This is what it’s all about.’
Nobody moved and I couldn’t resist. I found myself walking past a huge earth mother who was clutching a Mega Slushy as though her firstborn. I got up on the stage and grabbed the microphone. I raised my right fist and shouted: ‘Greetings, comrades . . . !’ Everyone shouted greetings back. This was fun.
This isn’t exactly my bag . . .’ (I tried to sound like someone at Woodstock and was briefly tempted to warn the motley assembly that there was some bad acid going round.)
‘I’m over here from the UK to look for Ogopogo and . . . I was wondering what you guys thought? Anybody here seen the monster? Can I see by a show of hands who thinks he exists?’
The crowd turned in a second. They started booing and one guy shouted, ‘Fuck off, you stupid asshole!’ It seemed that asterisks applied only to written profanities. A small Asian postal worker grabbed the mike and told me to get lost . . .
I left the stage and felt the disapproving stares of everyone around me. I even got half shoulder-barged by a man holding a sign saying, ‘Eat the rich’. I decided to move on.
After walking around town for a while I had lunch in a Japanese restaurant opposite the demo so that I could people watch from safety. A woman in a Beatles cap was now on stage playing a guitar and screeching loudly. Her song seemed interminable and even the protestors seemed relieved when it was over. She, however, was nothing compared to the man in wheelchair who followed. He couldn’t get up on the stage so the Rasta brought him the microphone and then told everyone to gather closer so that they could all see him. There were about 200 draft dodgers littered around the park. I reckoned if the police swooped now they could end crime in the valley in one go.
