Farther Up the Main

Farther Up the Main

Wayne J. Lutz

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 Wayne J. Lutz

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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About the Author

Wayne Lutz was previously Chairman of the Department of Aeronautics at Mount San Antonio College in California, leading the school’s Flying Team to championships seven times as Top Community College Flying Team in the United States. He also served as a California Air National Guard C-130 aircraft maintenance officer.

The author is a flight instructor with 7000 hours of flight experience. In the past three decades, he has spent summers in Canada, exploring remote regions with his Piper Arrow, flying north from Los Angeles and camping next to his airplane. In 2000, he discovered Canadian boats and the beauty of Powell River, British Columbia.

The author now resides in a floating cabin on Canada’s Powell Lake during all seasons. His writing genres include regional Canadian publications and science fiction.

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Other Books by Wayne J. Lutz

Science Fiction

Inbound to Earth

Echo of a Distant Planet

Coastal British Columbia Stories

Up the Lake

Up the Main

Up the Winter Trail

Up the Airway

Up the Strait

Farther Up the Lake

Farther Up the Strait

Cabin Number 5

http://www.PowellRiverBooks.com

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The stories are true, and the characters are real.

All of the mistakes rest solidly with the author.

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Farther Up the Main

Contents

About the Author

Preface -- After Up the Main

1 -- April Snow

2 -- Mount Alfred

3 -- Boys’ Night Out

4 -- Theodosia

5 -- Rain Turnin’ to Snow

6 -- Pickin’ Apples

7 -- Heather Main

8 -- Khartoum

9 -- Granite Lake 6

10 -- Cabin Huntin’

11 -- Mount Mahony

12 -- Last Chance

Epilogue -- Outdoors

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Preface

After Up the Main

One of my first books in the series Coastal British Columbia Stories focused on quad riding and my outsider-looking-in viewpoints regarding the backcountry surrounding Powell River. At the time, I envisioned Up the Main as an interesting topic for a book, rather than a personal life-long adventure. As I viewed it, learning to ride a quad and exploring the local region was a fine sport for those interested in such exploits, but I didn’t see it as an activity that would hold my interest over time.

I thought that taking a few quad rides would allow me to experience a unique form of recreation that’s a passion to some, write a book that should appeal to locals, and then turn to other pursuits. Little did I know I would become addicted.

During that first ride with John on a quad rented from his cousin, I thrashed through some challenging paths, and came to appreciate the physical effort demanded on the trail. Riding with John was a step above a typical introductory trip, but he went easy on me. When I balked at buying a quad, he convinced me that a small (100 cc) motorcycle would be enough to get started, particularly since he knew motorcycles intrigued me more than quads. The small motorcycle proved inadequate for many routes, both because of the limitations of the bike and my weak riding skills. But it appealed to my sense of adventure, and I began to ride for all of the right reasons.

At first, riding the motorbike was a full-time job, so I missed a lot of the natural surroundings. Even glancing beyond the side of the road was a nerve-wracking chore. But slowly, I gained in riding skills, and began to take in the amazing scenery, not just when I stopped, but even as I rode.

My wife, Margy, was willing to give off-road riding a try, but the motorcycle option wasn’t her forte. Instead, she settled on a 250 cc two-wheel drive quad, enough to get her started. Off we’d go -- me on my wimpy 100 cc motorcycle, Margy on her 250 cc bike, and John (with Bro in his aft box) on a bruising 660 cc quad. John’s patience was often tested, but we made it through the introductory stage, and soon both Margy and I were hooked.

Today, Margy and I ride 450 cc quads, but we still prefer to follow John when we venture out. There’s nothing like a ride with him to discover new places and tackle exploits you’d never try on your own. He knows how to push us to the limit, but not quite make us break. And these days, Margy and I even venture out on our own, tracing trails on maps, following routes recommended by friends, and exploring side-spurs that go to places unknown. We may not be experienced riders, but we’re appreciative ones. And rides are no longer undertaken just to write another chapter. There’s more to it than that -- it’s now a life-long pursuit.

Over the past three years, since the publication of Up the Main, I’ve ventured farther into the bush and occasionally even more boldly. But you don’t have to be fearless to enjoy off-road travel to new destinations or places you enjoy revisiting again and again. Thus, the word Farther in Farther Up the Main represents a journey in both distance and attitude. What I once expected to be a passing fancy is now an integral part of my life. It’s proof positive that it’s not just the destination that’s important -- it’s how you get there.

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Chapter 1

April Snow

Under a showery early evening sky, the blue-and-white Campion floats in fishing position within First Narrows, engine off. Her bow bobs near the rock cliff a few metres from the green navigation marker. For the first time this year, the front and rear canvas are unsnapped and pulled half-aside, while the top canvas provides protection from the intermittent sprinkles. The center windshield is hinged open and the overhead canvas hatch is unzipped and thrown back, allowing walk-through access to the bow. I haven’t removed all the canvas yet, since it still looks like rain, but it’s only sprinkling at the moment. In this configuration, I have easy access to the two best fishing locations in opposite ends of the boat. Sometimes, as the boat drifts, I move from bow to stern with my line still out, sliding my rod over the top canvas from one outstretched hand to the other. It’s a long reach, but it keeps my lure in the water without interruption.

I’ve fished for two hours in the fading light on this second day of April, one day after the opening of trout season on the lake. Everything in nature seems about three weeks late this spring, even the fish. So far, I’ve seen one small trout follow my line to the boat, but no strikes on my red-and-white daredevil. The birds and wildflowers seem equally delayed by the unusually prolonged winter. Today, nearly two full weeks into official spring, it’s barely acceptable to remove the canvas from the Campion, but I’m defiant. If spring hasn’t sprung, maybe I can hurry it up a bit.

John and Rick have been defiant, too. They arrived at Hole in the Wall mid-day for a hike along the logging roads and the spur trails bordering Chippewa Bay. When John and Rick pulled into the Hole this morning, John swung his Hourston in a wide arc towards my cabin -- Hello! -- before veering off to the other side of the bay. As the boat’s wake spread in a curve, Bro stuck his head out the back of the overhead canvas, preparing for arrival at one of his favourite cabins. I returned their greeting from my cabin deck with a wide wave of my arm, a few seconds too late to be seen by anybody but the black Lab.

As soon as John’s boat pulled to a stop at Cabin Number 2 and the engine went silent, I shouted Hey, guys! across the bay while watching two men and a dog in my binoculars.

John’s return holler was simple, his words clipped to assure I heard him across the bay: Hey, Wayne! We’re goin’ hikin’. The two brothers and the black dog quickly climbed the cliffside stairs, with only a brief pause as John gave Bro a needed ass-push up the final rock ledge. They disappeared into the trees and were gone -- six hours ago.

Now I float in First Narrows, a bit worried. Both John and Rick are sturdy hikers, but they like to push it. There’s little doubt where they’ve gone -- down the steepest trails to Chippewa as far as they can: Let’s see if we can get farther than last time, and find something new.

Even more likely, they are working on the trail to the new steam donkey, which is new only in the sense it’s the most recent old steam donkey John has found in this area. Hikes into this thick logging area aren’t unusual. What isn’t normal is the time. It’s now approaching sunset, and John and Rick will need to get down the lake before it gets dark. They are careful about pushing darkness, especially when it includes a boat trip back down the lake, and already it seems past their limit.

To the west, above Chippewa Bay, a thick mist of snow has been falling for the last two hours, a constant wall of gray-white. If John or Rick slips and falls or even twists an ankle in this backcountry, it’ll be a formidable hike back to the Hole. An unscheduled overnight stay in this area, although not deadly for these guys, would be far from comfortable.

Already my imagination has taken over: Hey, Doug, get my motorcycle from the storage shed at the condo, and meet me at the Shinglemill at 6 am. We’ll use my boat to bring the bike to Number 2, and then we’ll rope it up the cliff. One of us can ride up the main to find them, while the other stands by the phone. I rehearse the rescue plan in my mind.

I hear the sound of the Hourston’s Yamaha four-stroke only moments before it charges around the corner from Hole in the Wall and out into First Narrows. John targets my boat immediately, aims his Hourston directly at my bobbing position, and immediately comes off-plane to glide up against my bow. The Campion is pointing straight at the Hourston, so I flick my docking lights on and then off quickly: Hello! My rescue plans aren’t needed.

As usual, John times his arrival perfectly, the Hourston drifting right up to me in a perfect raft-up maneuver. He gives the outboard a quick spurt of reverse, and comes to a halt within arm’s reach. I stand in the front of my boat with my fishing rod, while John reaches through his open side window for my bow. He turns off his engine, and as if on cue, it begins to pour.

How was the steam donkey? I ask.

You guessed it, replies John. We worked on the trail some more. We’ve got to get you up there soon, before the new logging road is finished and messes it up.

John is used to spending days working on a trail that’s obliterated a few weeks later.

Lot of snow right now, says Rick, and it’s coming down pretty good up there today. But the trail’s in nice shape.

Any fish? says John.

Caught seven so far.

Yeah, right. April fool to you too, says Rick. It’s still too cold, even for the trout.

The rain is pouring down in sheets now, and I’m standing in the bow getting soaked. My jacket, hat, and snow pants provide some protection, but this is ridiculous.

Get out of the rain, says John as he reaches out of his window and pushes off my bow. He starts his engine and backs away. By now we’ve both drifted nearly into the middle of the channel.

Hey, can you take me riding tomorrow? I yell as the Hourston slowly retreats.

Sure, if the weather holds. But it looks like snow, even here.

In April?

Why not? Winter isn’t over yet.

He’s right, and the fish know it.

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When I get back to my cabin, I’m totally drenched. The rain stopped just as suddenly as it began, and now the western sky is a mix of blue and pink, with stunning white clouds catching the evening sunset. I contemplate leaving the canvas off the bow and stern, but it could rain again tonight. So I take the time to button up the boat. For the moment, I give in to the delayed arrival of spring.

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The next morning, I awaken to my alarm and two inches of new snow. If I’d left the boat covers open, it would’ve been a mess for my trip to town. So I luck out with a dry boat beneath the canvas. By 7 am, the Campion is loaded and ready to go. If I get going early enough, I can be ready to ride before John wakes up. Since he’s always rushing me, it would be fun to be ahead of schedule, and to rush him for a change. But there’s lots to do first, including the boat ride to the Shinglemill, the drive to town, a quick check for email at the condo, dressing in clothes appropriate for riding, breakfast, and getting the quad trailer hitched up at the airport hangar.

The trip down the lake is a sublime ride. In all directions, new snow covers the mountains. The sky is mostly clear, with the rising sun still hidden behind Goat Island to the east. The lake is smooth, making the morning flotsam easy to spot, so I can drive at a comfortable 40 klicks.

I hustle through my morning chores in town and pull up in back of John’s house shortly after 9 am. There’s no place to park. The entire area is clogged with Ed’s van, Rick’s taxicab, both of John’s trucks (his new one torn apart on the lawn for renovation), and Rick’s pickup. I manage to park straddling the driveway and jutting out into the alley.

Bro runs out to greet me, so I know the household is awake. But I notice John’s quad isn’t yet loaded in his truck, so I’m still ahead of schedule. The downstairs door is unlocked, so I walk in and yell up the stairs to John: Hey, man, let’s get going. I don’t have all day.

Helen comes down the stairs, smiling and chuckling in her normal jovial mood: John’s still eating breakfast. He isn’t ready yet.

Well, he’d better hurry up, I reply.

Helen laughs; she knows John is typically impatient with my dawdling.

Hey, John! Helen yells up the stairs. Wayne’s ready to go. You’d better get movin’.

In a minute! is John’s disgusted reply.

Never mess with John when he’s eating.

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The potholed road