Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #1
      The Texas Lake hostel was about 15 feet off the Trans-Canada Highway. Ching, the hostel dog, used to sleep unconcerned about five feet from the shoulder. It looked like he had been hit and left to die by the side of the road. (DF)


      Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #2
      I was impressed by the fact that the busiest highway in Canada was sometimes empty. The hostel was in the middle of a mile-long straightaway. Some quiet nights I would go out and lie down on the centre line. I would try not to fall asleep. (DF)


      Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #3
      In front of the hostel, a car slows down and pulls onto the gravel. We look up, expected a hitchhiker to emerge. A hand comes out of the open door, dropping a pregnant cat on our doorstep. The car pulls away. (DF)


      Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #4
      On a night with ten inches of wet snow, the snow plow comes barreling down the highway, hurling snow to the side. A slug of snow hits the front door, forcing it open, and snow slides across the floor under the dining room table. (DF)


      Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #5
      On another snowy night, a Ferrari of all things spins off the road near the geodesic dome. Luckily for the driver, fifteen hippies reverently lift it back onto the highway. (DF)


      Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #6
      One night on duty, I was making a cassette tape ‘letter’ to my brother in Quebec, who was just about to become a father. After talking into the tape for fifteen minutes, I played it back. Half of it was unintelligible due to the noise of passing trucks. I had never noticed. (DF)


      Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #7
      One night, late, on duty in the Big House, a Pontiac slews to a stop on the gravel outside the door. The rear passenger door bangs open and a comatose drunk is rolled out onto the shoulder, followed by an acoustic guitar, no case, Frisbee style. SPRANGgggg. The car sprays gravel as it fishtails away. (JdeV)

     
     Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #8
     One night at dinner we hear a car humming and whooshing its way towards us in the gathering dusk. As it gets closer we hear the unmistakable metallic rap-rap-rapping of a failing rod bearing and the engine goes BANG just as it passes the Big House.  Don and I go out and stroll down the highway, gathering hot pieces of oily metal that used to be a working Rambler motor. As we approach, the driver has the hood up and is trying to find out why the car stopped. (JdeV)


     Living by the Trans-Canada Highway #9
     Being so close to the highway was very dangerous  for our animal friends and pets.  Dogs that I buried during my time at Texas Lake Hostel included Stills, a black Labrador, Layla, a Golden Retriever cross and Monica's lovely and well-behaved Chesapeake who died in my arms in Elf as Don rushed us to the veterinarian.  I also buried 5 or 6 cats whose names I have lost over the years.         Resquiat in pace      (JdeV)


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      Journal entry:

      Baked eight loaves of whole wheat bread last night and six loaves of oatmeal. A couple was dropped off at 3 a.m. and helped me test it out. I love the smell of bread in the middle of the night.
      In the night kitchen, with the bulk of the travelers gone to bed, some hanging out by the lake, some chatting quietly on the couch in the Big House. Breakfast to make at eight and a long night to pass, interrupted by the odd mid-night arrival. Might as well make the bread.
      Turn on the music and dig out the big, red, plastic bowl, more like a washtub. Pour in 15–20 pounds of flour, scalded milk, fragrant yeast, honey, mashable leftovers (millet, rice, porridge, sweet potatoes) and stir it up, thick wooden spoon handle bending against the load.
      Turn it out on a floured table, cups of extra flour at hand and thump it down, still gooey, sticky to the fingers. Dust it, turn it, lean the right arm into its gut and turn it, slap it, lean the right arm into it. Rocking on your feet, table humping across the floor, slamming that warm, grainy mass hard against the surface to break the rhythm and start anew twisting and pressing it down until it starts to stretch with worked gluten and can be bounced – airborne – hanging like a dumbbell, breaking in the middle. The longer the stretch, the closer to done.

      The big gas ovens, lit and ready (our trainers – they teach caution as they sometimes blow the unwary cook against the opposite wall, when the match comes with too much delay).

      A dozen pans, oiled and prepped. The final loaves, pounded flat, then rolled up with the ends tucked. When ready, they feel like a baby's bum after a bath: cupped into your hand, warm and resilient. Avoid stickiness in both bread and bums.
      Cover them with cleanest towel for rising on the stove top, not too hot, not too cool. Go out and have a smoke, look at the night sky and listen. The Trans-Canada traffic just outside the door has tapered off, cars or trucks are solitary in the night, audible for miles and uniquely present as they pass.

      Hours pass. Drowsiness beckons.

      The loaves are finally ready, hollow sounding when tapped, tumbling easily from the pan when inverted, parked haphazardly on cooling racks from old refrigerators.
      A couple enters, tentative in the lateness of the night, breaking into smiles when they grasp that they share the room with a dozen cooling loaves, a bread knife, a pound of butter, and a happy baker.

      "Hungry? Let me get you a plate."

            (Don Fugler)


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      Journal entry:

      I got hit by a truck yesterday, while hitchhiking out of Vancouver.
      I was walking up Boundary Road to get to the ramp to the highway, and some pickup truck got loose and sideways, and knocked me about thirty feet. He kept going too, but I heard that they caught him.
      They took me to hospital. I was lucky. All I had was scratches and bruises, so they let me go and I kept hitchhiking here.

      Curious night. When I arrived here after midnight, there were two guys I didn't know doing duty. I told them that I lived here and asked who was doing the night shift. They said Wally was, but he had too much to drink and went to sleep somewhere. So I told them my story and went to bed in the dome. In the middle of the night, Wally wakes up and wanders over to the Big House. Those guys tell him that Don arrived and that I was hit by a truck. Wally, likely still under the influence, throws open the door and rushes out to the highway, yelling "Don! Don! Where are you? Are you OK?"



      There are certain hazards associated with road life. Hitchhiking is inherently dangerous for women. Males have all the same problems with drunk drivers, cars in poor condition, and the inconveniences of being stranded in the middle of nowhere in the middle of night. Assaults on males are less frequent. My introduction to flight occurred in what should have been a relatively safe situation.

      I was working during the week at the day care in Vancouver and returning weekends to Texas Lake to be with my friends. Usually I would take over the Friday night shift at the Hostel on my arrival, but they knew that the hour of arrival was dependent upon my luck with the drivers between Vancouver and Hope.
      Friday afternoon following work, I would pack a small bag with clothes, put my sleeping bag and a jacket in a stuff sack, and sling that over my shoulder with a strap that I had sewn to the nylon sack for that purpose. I would take the city bus to the end of the line at Boundary Road, and then walk up the hill to the Grandview Highway ramp onto the Trans-Canada Highway. There were some stores along that stretch, a McDonald's, and some warehouses.
     Boundary Road was busy on a Friday afternoon and I usually had little problem getting a ride at the ramp. That day, on my way up the hill, I heard a car coming up behind me on the gravel shoulder. I turned around, wondering if someone recognized that I was going to be hitchhiking at the intersection, and had pulled over to offer me a ride.
     What I saw, in a brief instant, was the side of a pickup truck coming toward me. He had apparently lost control while turning through the intersection and was skidding with his tail end on the shoulder. It hit me hard, and sent me flying. I remember thinking as I drifted through the air "I bet my whole life is going to be changed by this incident, that is if I survive."
      I hit the ground some thirty feet later, on the driveway from a warehouse where a large tractor trailer was descending to turn onto Boundary Road. I thought "Great! I survive being hit and then I get run over."

      He was able to lurch to a halt several feet from where I lay. The world became very slow as I was trying to figure out what parts of my body were injured. I could hear the traffic still running along Boundary Road for a while and I thought that maybe no one had noticed what had transpired. Then the trucker leapt from his cab, car doors were slamming, people were swarming around me, and a guy was yelling, "He kept going but my buddy is chasing after him. He'll catch 'em."
      Soon there were police and an ambulance, and I was rushed up the road to the Burnaby Hospital. The ambulance attendant checked me over and reported that I might not have anything broken. Three hours later, scratched, bloodied, patched up, with torn clothes, and good x-ray results, they confirmed that diagnosis and released me.
      "Want us to call anyone to pick you up?" they asked. I couldn't think of anyone. I had recently moved into a co-op house in Vancouver for my year of day care. I did not know anyone well there yet, and no one had a vehicle in any case. It was a Buddhist co-op - I was not a good fit.

      I was stumbling down to 10th Avenue to catch a bus back to the co-op, but I had to walk past the highway ramp to get there and the ramp was too inviting. I wanted to be with my close friends in Hope, not lying in a small basement room in a house of relative strangers.
      I stuck out my thumb. My bad luck was certainly paid up that night. Two hours later I was just 30 km out of town, on a dark suburban ramp. There were no cars. I was feeling bruised and dizzy and decided to call it a night, so I walked across the overpass and started hitching back to Vancouver. A car with a young guy stopped to pick me up.

      "Geez. You look like shit!"

      "Yeah, well, I just got hit by a truck."

      I related the incident as we rolled on to Vancouver. Then he asked: "Where are you going anyhow? I can drop you off at your house."

      "I was hitching to Hope but I turned around. I guess I'm going to the Dunbar area."

      "Hey! I can get you to Hope. I'm just driving in to pick up my broad in West Van. We're going to Kamloops tonight. I can drop you off in Hope on the way through."

      So, in the end, I got a ride to Hope by hitching west to Vancouver.




      Two months later the driver of the pickup truck had a trial by judge. He had been drinking and his blood alcohol was over 0.08 but they had also charged him with impaired driving and hit and run. His defense was that he had lost control of his truck turning at the intersection and had not noticed a pedestrian, or that he had hit me.

      I figured that if he didn't get convicted for impaired driving, then he would be convicted for hit and run. I dressed as well as I could and the prosecution coached me on being polite to the judge. He got off on both charges. I received about $100 to pay for my torn overalls and a day of sick leave.

           (Don Fugler)


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     Commotion in a Round Tent

     I was doing the night shift when a woman burst through the door looking for help. She related that she had been sleeping with her young daughter in the couples' tent when a single man came into the tent and lay down beside her. She informed him that the tents for single men were further down the path, and that this was a tent reserved for couples and families. He told her to shut up. We had a problem.

     The Texas Lake Hostel was six miles north of Hope, BC, sandwiched between the busy Trans-Canada highway and the quiet lake.
     In summer up to 100 travellers, mostly hitchhikers, would stay the night. They slept in conical Army surplus tents in the woods, generally with their feet to the pole and their heads to the outside of the tent. At its peak, Texas Lake had seven tents: four for single men, two for single women, and one for couples and families. The travellers were generally carrying their own bedding. We had put straw on the floor to keep them off the damp ground characteristic of that rainy place.

     Most of the visitors were travelling to see the country, or looking for work. Some, however, were damaged souls either due to genetics or environment. The one in the couples' tent sounded like the latter. I walked down the dark path with the woman, after asking another resident to get a flashlight and some help.
     It was curious to me that the woman had left her sleeping daughter in the tent with the disturbed person. As we entered the tent, she scooped her up and carried her back to the Big House. I approached the prone traveller who had lain down beside her and shook his shoulder.

     “Time to get up and move to another tent.”

     “Fuck off,” he replied. I could tell this was going to take a while.

     “You are in the wrong tent. This one is for couples. You were rude the lady who was sleeping here with her daughter.”

     “Go away. I can sleep anywhere that I want.”

     “Well, no. This is a federal youth hostel. We work here. We have some rules, which you have to follow.”

     “Fuck off and let me sleep.”

     Around this time reinforcements arrived. Tyhson with a dim flashlight came into the tent, along with fourteen year old Bradley, and Ching the dog, who was interested in anything that was going on. Ching was big, 120 pounds, and generally gentle. His only lapses from decorum occurred if you stepped on him accidentally as he slept. He would wake up snarling and snapping, and then look around apologetically after realising that no real danger existed.

     The flashlight battery wore out, and the light dimmed. Bradley held aloft his Bic lighter to illuminate the scene. Another staff member entered the tent. The space became crowded with four standing people, a dog, and a prostrate hitchhiker denying the inevitability of his departure. The Bic lighter became hot to the touch and had to be shifted from hand to hand. Someone stumbled back and stepped unwittingly on Ching’s foot. All hell broke loose.

     Ching started barking and growling, sounding loud in the dark tent. The traveller sprung to his feet screaming “Call off your dog! Call off your dog! I’ll leave!” We all backed out of the tent, giving him time to assemble his gear and exit.

     He emerged through the tent flap with his pack and confronted the assembled group, still illuminated by the Bic lighter. He thrust his face up at Tyhson’s, about a foot higher than his own, and intoned threateningly “Someday you are going to wake up with a knife in your face,” and then stalked off to the highway to hitch off in the middle of the night.
     God protect whoever picked him up.

     We put new batteries in all the hostel flashlights after that event. 

     (Don Fugler)

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     David goes Out West

     Day One

     When I was 23 I bought a one-way coach ticket on CN’s Supercontinental for $24.00 and rode a train to see Donald in B.C.  Four days and three nights of eating oranges and dates, desperate to lie down someplace forever, I dragged my 50 lb. backpack off the train at Hope. 
Before I saw Donald I read a large sign:  “Vancouver 175 miles; Montreal 3,000 miles”.  So I knew exactly where I was in July, 1974.

     “You know something, I hate crowds…. So where is this place – Texas Lake?” I asked as we drove along the highway.  “… and who lives there?”

     Over the next few days, before Donald and I hitchhiked to Vancouver Island, a great many people attempted to help me learn how to co-operate in groups larger than 2 – not an easy concept for this visually challenged only child.  But I was a determined visually challenged loner and I wanted to immerse myself in Donald’s community lifestyle.
      And so, on Day One at Texas Lake, I attended my very first community meeting in the main house, just 20 feet from the one-person geodesic dome I would call mine for sleeping.  (I liked my dome – a wooden floor and clear plastic as dome cover – sunrise to the east and midnight truck lights to the west.  I always knew where I was – in the middle.)

     “You can wash dishes, right?”  Tyhson was tall and friendly.

     “Sure,” I said.

     “Right – 3 bins – one to wash, the second…” I looked around, trying to see the kitchen where, I was astounded to learn, food was prepared each night for 75 hitchhikers, drivers and the odd reprobate from town.

     “… and that’s the 3rd bin’s function – got it?”

     “Sure,” I said.  “When does the staff eat?”

     Tyhson looked amused and straightened me out.  It seemed this was not a hotel; everyone ate together and helped where they could.

     After supper, what a crowd, I thought – and every night, too.  Better get started – wash, rinse and…. What’s the 3rd bin again?  Or is it wash, chlorinate and rinse… was it chlorine bleach?  Ah, well… don’t ask, I’ll do it my way. 

     “All finished,” I told Donald. 

     “Very nice… did you use the bleach?  And in the right order?”

      “Umm, not sure really…”


     Day Two

     By now all the wretched coughing and sneezing I endured for days on the train had rendered me feverish and congested.  I had coughed all night in my dome and rose early to get some coffee.  Trish made excellent perk coffee, so I drank most of it from one of the many stacked coffee cups all ready for our travelling guests.

     There was Tyhson – I could tell because he was tall.  “Hi David – you don’t look so well, maybe you need more sunlight.   Say, you could pick some lamb’s quarters for dinner tonight, if you’re into it – we need a garbage bag full – ever picked lamb’s quarters?”  He looked at me hopefully.

     “Umm, not really,” I said – “are they green?”  Tyhson showed me some and reiterated that I should only do it if I felt like it.

     “Right,” I said, wondering why he didn’t just ask me outright since I was eating the hostel’s food and sleeping under their dome – clearly not quite getting the lifestyle yet.

     I drank the last of the coffee and headed out beyond the compost site past the cabins and got to it.  I put on my gloves to avoid any irritation and picked in a ¼ acre area – full of lamb’s quarters, I thought.

     “Here we are,” I said – feeling like I was beginning to be part of “we”.  I opened up the overflowing bag and presented it to Tyhson – “All set for 75 tonight.”

     “Poison Ivy,” said Tyhson. 

     Amazingly, no one was cross and after lunch I washed floors successfully and had a swim – glorious.  On the way back toward my dome I saw a huge cedar-shaked dome and asked someone who slept in such a magnificent structure. 

     “Bruce, the army guy… he likes to be by himself,” said someone. The army I thought.  Probably has a definite perspective on co-operation.  So I walked in to meet Bruce.

     “You don’t look so good,” said Bruce, who was sharpening an enormous knife, somewhere between a Bowie and a machete.  He wore an army shirt.

     “It’s a flu I caught from coughing crowds on the train,” I said. 

     “I hate crowds, “ said Bruce.

     By the time Donald and I headed to Lytton the next day, Bruce had given me his fine blade, which I have kept in excellent repair to this very day.


     Lytton

     My fever was doing splendidly but with packs on our backs and thumbs out, Donald and I caught easy rides to the bridge over the Fraser near Hell’s Gate, if I recall correctly.

     When we reached our destination, we walked a shaded path toward some land being used by Texas Lake.  100 degrees Fahrenheit, 13% relative (no) humidity anywhere and an hour later – presto! – a vegetable garden with several naked women planting spinach. 

     “Hello Don,” they said.  “Who’s your pal?”

     Donald introduced me.

     “Nice to see you,” I said.  And, clearly still not getting the co-op thing yet, I promptly lay down and slept in the cool shade of a mere 90degrees for hours and woke up in time to have supper at the house, beside goats and under a billion stars in the clear skies. 


     In August 1974, Richard M. Nixon resigned, the Vietnam war ended and a community in BC flourished.
And I learned a few things about me and co-operating:

 -  I learned that an entire community of like-minded souls of good will could accomplish marvellous things.

 -  I learned that coffee grounds are great for rose bushes (thank you Trish) and that aggressive, snarling German shepherds of 80 pounds are no match for a 120lb wolf-dog who rarely exhibited any aggression (hello Ching).

 -   I met lovely, patient people with big hearts who all called Texas Lake home and offered warm and genuine hospitality to a complete stranger who still has a lot to learn about co-operating.


     So, if my wife Cherrie and I can join you in Hope this August, I’ll bring lots of coffee, lamb’s quarters and, in case Bruce the army guy is in attendance, his large knife to give back.

     (David Gelinas)


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