by Julie Lawson
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Yale, British Columbia, Dominion of Canada, 1882
August 1882
September 1882
October 1882
November 1882
December 1882
January 1883
February 1883
March 1883
April 1883
May 1883
June 1883
July 1883
August 1883
Epilogue
Historical Note
Images and Documents
Credits
Dedication
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Books in the Dear Canada Series
Yale, British Columbia, Dominion of Canada, 1882
August 1882
Monday, August 28, 1882, 7 P.M.
Hell’s Gate and Galoshes! I am well pleased today — and thankful for God’s tender mercies. After the events of yesterday, I might not have had a today.
This is what happened. I was spending the week’s end at Rachel’s farm in Spuzzum and Rachel came up with a daring idea. We would follow the Wagon Road to a spot near the Alexandra Suspension Bridge where her brothers keep their boat, then we would borrow the boat and float a short distance downriver. And we did!
The Fraser was low and everything was fine at first, but it was a wild stretch of water and it was not long before we panicked and decided to end the Adventure. We steered the boat to shore — with great difficulty — and Rachel jumped out with rope in hand. The plan was for me to jump out as well and together we would pull the boat back to its hiding place and return to Rachel’s farm before anyone was the wiser. But Great Godfrey, before I had a chance to jump out, the current dragged the rope out of Rachel’s hands and I was adrift and flying down the Canyon.
The river was swift and muddy — boiling with spray and seething with treacherous whirlpools — but in spite of my terror I noticed a large flat rock a few feet from shore. I took hold of the rope and with heart in hands leapt out upon the rock, waded to shore, tied the boat to a tree and climbed the rocky bluff, goodness knows how.
I ended up at a roadhouse — wet and shaky, fingers scraped and bleeding, clothing fair torn to shreds — and lo and behold, there was the Express pulling out. Mr. Tingley stopped his team, wrapped me in a rug and tucked me inside the coach. A kind passenger gave me a sip of brandy from his flask.
Mr. Tingley cracked his whip and the horses raced off toward Spuzzum. On the way we passed Rachel and her parents and brothers, anxiously out looking for me. Poor Rachel was in Hysterics, certain I had drowned. But here I am, safe and sound.
So that is why I am exceedingly thankful. Mama and Papa are thankful, too, for they have presented me with this Diary. It even has a ribbon to mark my place. Papa told me if I want to grow up and be a newspaper reporter like Mr. Hagan (which I do), I had better start practising. He said, “Keep your wits about you and your eyes and ears open.”
Toby said I had better hide the Diary when he’s around because his eyes and ears are open, too. Andrew failed to show the slightest interest, being otherwise engaged in oiling his new rifle. He showed a considerable amount of interest in my Adventure, however. He even showed Admiration for my courage and pluck. But not openly, of course, being Andrew.
Mama told me that she kept a Diary when she was a girl. She said I could record my Private Thoughts and Feelings as well as the things I see and hear — and survive. She also said I must exercise more caution in the future, especially when gallivanting with Rachel. I promised her I would.
Papa told me I should use my Diary to record “lessons learned,” beginning with my foray on the river.
Here is my first LESSON LEARNED: Next time I will be the first to leap out of the boat.
Same Day, 9 P.M.
In case anyone dares to read my Diary (warning: Toby), “Hell’s Gate” is not a blasphemy even tho’ it contains the word H___. It is a real place on the Canyon so I can say it.
Tuesday, August 29
All day long Toby pestered me with questions about my Adventure, hoping to catch me out in a lie. How fast was the river flowing? How big were the rapids? How slippery was the rock? How far from shore? He says I was carried away by words more than by river. He says no one could have survived.
Well, Simon Fraser did when he was exploring the river in the first place. And I did, too. I confess I may have exaggerated a little. But only in the telling. My written account is the Honest Truth.
Toby’s final question: How did the brandy taste?
Awful! So he needn’t be jealous. Brandy tastes much better when it is hidden in plum pudding.
September 1882
Friday, September 1, 8 P.M.
I could spit nails. Serves me right, listening at doors, but Hell’s Gate, hearing the words Kate, wild, college and lady — all in the same sentence — compelled me to listen.
Now the cat is out of the bag. My parents are plotting to send me away to VICTORIA. To a school for Anglican girls called Angela College where they trust I will learn the necessary Social Graces. Necessary for what? Blasts and brimstones! I wanted to storm into the parlour and bellow, “Yale has social graces! Why can’t I stay here?”
And what of my brothers? They are the ones lacking in graces, social and otherwise.
I also heard Mama say what a pity they cannot afford to send me to school in England after all. Aha! They have been hatching this plot for some time. Only one thing to do. Hatch a plot of my own.
Same Day, 9 P.M.
Here is my plan.
I, Kathleen Louise Cameron, born in Toronto, Canada, on February 15, 1870, hereby pledge to do the following:
1. Act in a gracious, ladylike manner so that Mama will no longer think Angela College is necessary.
2. Go through all the magazines that Grandma Forrest sends from England and re-read every article that pertains to Social Graces.
3. Refrain from moving quickly, speaking loudly and talking too much in an overly exuberant manner.
4. Walk with a book on my head to improve my posture.
Naturally this pledge does not apply to my Diary. Within these pages I can be my un-refrained self. The same when I am with Rachel.
Pledge #3 will be a torture. Especially tomorrow, because it is going to be an exciting day. Mr. Onderdonk has arranged for a locomotive to push five flatcars up the Canyon so everyone can watch the Skuzzy go through Hell’s Gate.
Saturday, September 2
Hip, hip for the Skuzzy! That’s what we thought first thing this morning. Now we are home and no-one’s hip-hipping anymore.
Off we went, dressed in our Sunday best to mark the occasion — along with half the town. That Skuzzy! It has been months since she first tried to get through Hell’s Gate — without succeeding — and everyone was convinced that this time she would make it. “Won’t it be grand!” everyone said. Because then the supplies that Mr. Onderdonk needs to build the railway can go by river instead of by the Wagon Road and it won’t cost Mr. O. so much money.
Not that I care two figs.
Fine morning — blue and purple mountains over the trees across the river — and lots of time to admire the view. We stood on the cliff at Hell’s Gate and watched and watched and waited and waited. Poor little Skuzzy! Smoke and steam gushed out of her smokestack and her boiler must have been fit to burst. She strained and struggled and tried so hard, but the rapids kept pushing her back. After five hours, we gave up and came home. Other people stayed and kept watching.
The best part was riding on the cars. The tracks going north up the Canyon are newly laid and we
were the first passengers to try them out.
Even though the Skuzzy failed in her attempt, I believe I succeeded in mine. I stood quietly on the river bank instead of playing tag or gallivanting about with the other children. I did not raise my voice, not even on the train ride, where it was impossible to be heard otherwise. I was so quiet Papa asked what was wrong. And when we got home Mama complimented me on the way I had kept my Sunday best clean enough to wear to church tomorrow. I thanked her graciously.
Sunday, September 3
Church this A.M. Several empty pews because a lot of people are still at Hell’s Gate watching the Skuzzy. Rev. Horlock should have preached a sermon on persistence. Maybe he did — I confess I was daydreaming instead of paying attention.
Spent the rest of the day reading and trying to put myself in a quiet Sunday mood. All I can think about is Back-to-School Tomorrow. I wish Rachel were going to be there.
Monday, September 4
New term at school. Same teacher as last year with the same bristly moustache and twitchy eyebrows. I watched closely all day long to see if he’d do his trick of raising one eyebrow and not the other. Alas, he didn’t.
Everyone was lively after the holidays but Teacher said our brains are in sore need of a waking. He “cracked the whip” a number of times and rapped more than a few knuckles, including Rusty’s.
For Penmanship we wrote:
Quidnuncs query with queer quizzical questions.
What are Quidnuncs? I wanted to ask Teacher but was afraid my knuckles would be rapped for being Impudent.
Impudent: cocky and bold.
I am going to keep track of tricky words and their meanings so I will do better in this year’s Examination.
Tuesday, September 5
I learned but one thing today — a quidnunc is a busybody. And a very odd-looking word.
Wednesday, September 6
Thrilling news — a PRINCESS is coming to Yale and we have the same name. I asked everyone at home to call me Louise from now on. Mama gave me a funny look, until I reminded her that Louise is my middle name and sounds much more elegant than Kate. Thank goodness I’ve been practising my Social Graces, especially Comportment. Now I must learn to curtsey. And I must start walking with a heavier book on my head.
Princess Louise is the fourth daughter of Queen Victoria and she will be coming with her husband, the Governor General of Canada. They will be here early next month!
Saturday, September 9
Toby and Andrew went hunting without me. I am only pretending to mind since I do not much care for shooting game — only eating it — but they could have gone fishing instead, and taken me.
I have finished my chores, written letters to Grandma Forrest and Rachel — and even to Mary Beth in Ottawa, in spite of the fact she has not yet replied to the letter I wrote last June. The mail is slow, but not that slow.
With all that done, and nothing else to do, I am writing in my Diary.
SIGHTS AND SOUNDS:
Grey sky
Drizzle
Cottonwood tree
Crows: caw caw
Chickens: cluck
Railway: blast, bang, clank, rumble, blast
Mrs. Murray’s dog: yap yap
Stern-wheeler: TOOT!
Me: sniff, sniff.
I must be coming down with a cold. Do not let Mama know. An ounce of cure is worse than a thousand pounds of anything.
THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS:
I suppose Mary Beth in Ottawa has forgotten me by now. It is a Trial being Best Friends when you are thousands of miles away.
Moving is a Trial.
Moving to Yale was a Trial, but now I like it here. I hope we never move again — unless it is upriver to Spuzzum.
If my parents send me to Angela College, I will run off and live in Rachel’s barn with the horses.
Thank goodness for Mr. Hagan! When we first came to Yale he gave us a tour of his newspaper and I showed such an interest he said that I could drop by any time and learn the ins and outs of being a newspaper reporter. Now is a good time! I’m done with thoughts and feelings.
Sunday, September 10
The Skuzzy is still trying to get through Hell’s Gate.
Monday, September 11
Mr. Hagan has a map on his wall so he can keep track of the railway progress. There is a lot of tracking to keep, with gangs working in different sections all through the Fraser Canyon — blasting tunnels, laying track, building bridges and so on. Papa is building the bridge at Skuzzy Creek, near Boston Bar, and when it’s finished, Mr. Hagan says I can mark it on his map. Last year he let me draw the railway tracks between Emory and Yale when that section got finished, and he said I could draw in the tracks all the way to Boston Bar. But that part is taking a long time. Papa says it probably won’t be finished for at least another year. And the total from Emory to Boston Bar is only 29 miles.
Wednesday, September 13
Why am I cursed with brothers? This is what horrid Toby said today — “I can see his brains, Kate! They’re oozing all over the stretcher!”
My Pledge momentarily forgotten, I ran to the window. It was admittedly a gruesome sight, but I felt obliged to have a look so I could record the details in my Diary.
Alas, Mama was too quick. She yanked us away from the window and drew the curtains.
She is forever scolding Papa for buying a house so close to Mr. Onderdonk’s Accident Hospital. “The children know the railway work is dangerous,” she tells him. “They do not need a constant reminder.”
Mama often goes to help care for the accident victims. I would like to help, too, but Mama says I’m not old enough. Perhaps it is for the best. I may not be brave enough to withstand the sight of too much blood.
I wonder if a person can be a reporter and still have Social Graces. It must be important to act hastily at times, in order to capture an event as it unfolds. Is it possible to act both gracefully and hastily? I’m beginning to think not.
Thursday, September 14
Awake all night. It was my own fault — I should never have looked at that poor man going into the hospital because all it did was give me nightmares.
It was my usual nightmare — someone is being carried into the hospital on a stretcher and the blanket is pulled back and the face is so battered and bloodied from exploding rocks it is unrecognizable — but I know it is Papa.
Mama says we should be thankful he is building bridges and not blasting tunnels, since most of the accidents occur where there is blasting. But I have nightmares all the same. I could never help out in the Hospital. What was I thinking? I would never be able to sleep.
Friday, September 15
Finally! Finished schoolwork and dinner and after-dinner chores, and now I’m free to write about today — before it is completely over. So here it is, starting from this morning.
I woke to the sound of blasting, as usual. I wish I had been here to mark the occasion when the first big blast happened, back on May 15, 1880, about four months before we arrived in Yale. I do not care for the noise and vibrations, but it would have been something to see the first bit of granite blown out of the cliff to make the First Railway Tunnel north of Yale.
The blasting has been going on steadily ever since. You would think that after two years I would be used to it, but it still shakes the house and gives me a nasty jolt — even though it is happening farther up the line now.
A usual morning: tended the chickens, gathered the eggs, ate one for breakfast (egg, not chicken) and put aside two yolks for washing my hair this evening.
Then I walked to school with my brothers. Toby talked my ear off. I listened graciously, showing great interest in his tales, but he did not seem to notice, just kept on talking. Andrew was his normal quiet self, probably thinking about his next hunting trip. He brought home three grouse the other day and we had grouse for dinner.
At school we had Sketching, my favourite subject. And Geography. Teacher called on me to point out the locatio
n of Calcutta and I’m pleased to say I found it in short order. Unlike Rusty, who stares blankly at a world map and cannot even find his own continent. No wonder his knuckles get rapped.
After school I came home. And here I am. It wasn’t much of a day.
I wish I’d had my Diary two years ago. I could have written all about our journey from Ontario to British Columbia. Mr. Hagan often describes his journeys up and down the railway line and prints them in the Sentinel for everyone to read. I could do the same, except that I’ve forgotten most of the details. Here is what I do remember —
We left Ottawa, Ontario, and took the Union Pacific Railroad across the United States of America, all the way to San Francisco. Papa kept telling us that one day we would be able to take a train across Canada — from sea to shining sea — thanks to him and Mr. Onderdonk and all the workers who are presently engaged in building the railway.
In San Francisco I had my first view of the ocean. It is called the Pacific. Papa says the name comes from the Spanish word pacifica, which means calm, but it was not calm and when we got on the steamship and sailed to Victoria I was seasick the entire time. I do not know the Spanish word for wretched or stormy but that is what the ocean should have been called.
We arrived in Victoria and Papa went on to Yale to make preparations for our arrival. We stayed in a hotel. After a few days we left Victoria on a stern-wheeler and went across the Strait of Georgia to New Westminster. We spent one night there and the next day we got on another stern-wheeler, the Western Slope, that went up the Fraser River to Yale.
I remember holding my breath in awe as we ploughed up the mighty Fraser, hemmed in by high wooded hills and snow-clad mountains. Toby and Andrew wanted nothing more than to leap off the boat and hike to the summits. I’ve now grown used to the Canyon, but at first I felt somewhat nervous. Everything was so big, so high, so wild — and scarcely a soul in sight, except for a few miners panning for gold along the river and handfuls of people waiting at the landings — which were few and far between.
