January 11, 2011: This is a booklet I published a few years ago. It tells the story of the trip to the Monashee Mountains that Peter, Lynn, Aisha, Randy and I took in 1974, and about some experiences with the red truck. And what became of it.
by Ken Drummond, 2005
I tell this story from time-to-time. I was in the hippie commune in Gilpin in 1974. Peter kept talking about driving up to Cherryville. He had bought a truck; I think it was a one ton truck. He convinced Randy and me to go with him. He had been there before, to the Monashee Mountains. He made it sound like a glamorous place, away from civilization. I remember the truck got stuck or something and the more Peter tried to get it out the worse it got. I was pondering the solution. Peter yelled at me to do something. I thought that it made more sense to slow down and figure out the best solution instead of keep trying different things that made it worse. I was finally able to implement a solution while somewhat appeasing him that I was taking rapid action. I was more experienced than he was with trucks and things. He had worked for me on the farm in '72 with a bunch of other hippies, but that's another story.
So we loaded up the truck with just about everything imaginable, all kinds of furniture and a wood-burning cook stove. We all piled into the cab--Peter, Lynn, their baby daughter Aisha, and Randy and me. We set off for the Monashee Mountains. Several hours later we got to Cherryville, then headed north toward Sugar Lake. It was night by then. Along the road to Sugar Lake we noticed a cabin, set back a ways from the road. Peter thought it might be a place we could stay. It was an abandoned cabin, missing windows, but good otherwise. We drove in and took a look. Peter liked it. We unloaded the truck, hooked up the wood stove, put plastic film in the windows, got it all fixed up nice and cozy, cooked supper on the wood stove, got into our beds and fell asleep. It must have been after midnight by this time.
A knock came on the door. I think we all rolled over and tried to ignore it for we were dead tired. The knock came again, louder this time. We opened the door and the owner walked in. He was very upset that we were in his cabin. He told us to leave. Peter argued with him, offering to pay him rent as I recall. The man left and we went back to bed. We were awakened again some time later. The man was back with a Mountie. After some preliminary discussion, the Mountie asked the man if he wanted us to leave.
"Yes," said the owner.
"Now?" asked the Mountie.
"Right now!" said the man.
Peter had tried to convince them to let us stay but to no avail. It did not help that we had a baby with us. The man was upset with me because I was smiling the whole time, something I seem to do a lot when I am in difficult situations.
So we loaded everything up in the truck, which took an hour or two, and drove back to Vernon. It was close to morning by this time. We had just enough money to pay for a hotel room for Peter, Lynn, and the baby. Randy and I practically froze, sleepless in the cab of the truck.
In the morning we went to a peach orchard somewhere near Vernon and got hired to prune trees. The job came with a place to stay so that was a lucky break.
After working a few days I wanted to make another attempt to go to the Monashee's. Peter and Lynn told me of a trail heading east from Sugar Lake, and twelve miles along the trail was a cabin they stayed in one summer. This caught my fancy so I obtained a toboggan and Peter drove me to Sugar Lake. I loaded blankets, books, and food on the toboggan and walked in through the snow for twelve miles. I was glad to find the cabin. I think it was just before dark. I think there was a stove already in the cabin; either that or I hauled in a small airtight heater. I got it all set up, ate a simple meal, and went to bed.
The cabin was infested with mice! They were everywhere, running back and forth over my blankets on the bed. I didn't know what to do. It was an infestation. After struggling mentally for a time, I eventually somehow (not quite sure in what form), made a deal with the mice. I agreed that they could continue to run across the bed as long as they did not go on my face. Somehow satisfied with this arrangement I went into a much-needed sleep. And as far as I know the mice stayed away from my face.
I stayed in the cabin in the Monashees for a week. Nowadays that would not be a big deal, but back then when I was only 24, it was a big deal. To be completely alone for so long was exactly the experience I had been wanting to have, and it was quite wonderful. The only sounds I heard were wolves in the distance.
I had a Bible with me, and a copy of the Whole Earth Catalog. It was an experience of self-discovery. My father had passed away the previous year and my whole view of life was going through a transition, though I did not know what form this transition was to take. I sensed somehow that the answer was to be found in solitude.
Apart from the major incident with the mice, I don't remember much about my stay in the cabin. I recall eating some dark rye bread that I had, and probably cheese. I must have done some cooking. I remember reading the Bible, seeking answers therein, and I'm sure I did a lot of walking, and gathering of firewood, and fetching of water.
It was time to leave, for I had arranged with Peter to meet me at Sugar Lake exactly one week after dropping me off. The snow had melted quite a bit and I realized I would not be able to take everything back on the toboggan. I left most of my stuff in the cabin, bringing only a few things with me in a pack. I walked the twelve miles back and it was quite a hike. The big event was meeting Peter, who was waiting there in the truck. Hearing another human voice for the first time, and hearing myself talk to him was a remarkable experience. It somehow brought home the significance and value of my adventure in solitude. And I knew that solitude would continue to be important for discovering guidance in my life
I think this was the time when Lynn prepared a special meal. It seemed to be in honor of me somehow and I recall that Lynn was dressed up. A simple person she was in many ways, quiet, uncomplaining, matter-of-fact, doing in a natural way whatever was required to be done. That meal was always a bit of a mystery, for I felt quite unworthy. Maybe she was trying to build up my self-esteem.
I returned to Gilpin and got a pick-up truck. I'm not sure if I bought it at this time--from Jerry for $35, or if I already had it. After thirty years, my memory is dimming to some details that I have not thought about for awhile. I recall it was a 1949 Ford 1/2 ton truck. Everything was loose on it. It required frequent checking and repair. I drove it up to Sugar Lake and attempted to drive in to the cabin to pick up my stuff. There was still a lot of snow at the entrance to the trail, though the trail itself was clear. I was not able to get the truck through that initial few hundred feet of deep snow no matter how I tried. Eventually I had to let most of the air out of the rear tires in order to get back out of the snow. I drove the ten odd miles to Cherryville very slowly with almost no air.
Maybe this was why the tires were always a problem on that truck. I had a hand pump and each of the four tires required pumping up from time-to-time. Two of them needed pumping every few days, the third about once a day, and the forth every couple of hours. Once as I was vigorously pumping (great exercise by the way) a police car drove up. The Mountie asked what I was doing. I told him I was pumping the tires. He drove away just shaking his head.
A news announcer for CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) Radio used to visit the hippie commune in Gilpin. Once he asked to borrow my truck. I told him he was welcome to use it but that it required special care. He agreed to whatever was required and said he really needed it. So I showed him all the details of adding various fluids at various times, operating the controls in certain unique ways, and of course the special tire pumping. He drove away, apparently following instructions including stopping for bumps and easing over them so the truck wouldn't fall apart. He returned the truck intact and I was impressed with his conscientiousness.
Later that spring I was hanging out with some other hippies in an apartment in Grand Forks (the nearest town to Gilpin). The radio was on and we heard that a truck had gone over the bank and into the river near Gilpin. I had a funny feeling and looked out the window to see if my truck was outside. It was gone! Now among its other idiosyncrasies the truck had no ignition key, only a toggle switch to turn the ignition off and on, and a push button for starting. I suppose that's the way Ford made pick-ups in '49. The story started to come out that Crazy Bob had been looking for a way to get out to Gilpin and had talked about taking my truck. I don't know why he didn't ask me. He probably thought either that I wouldn't mind or that maybe I would say no. Maybe he was just too drunk to even think about asking. Anyway, he drove it over the bank at the narrow part of the dirt road just west of Gilpin. I think it rolled over a few times going down the bank. I think it was Michael and a lady and a baby who were in the truck with him. At the bottom of the bank the truck and everyone in it went into the river. Apparently Michael pulled out the lady and Crazy Bob pulled out the baby. No one was hurt I understand, but it must have been quite a ride.
The truck was upside down in the river and Crazy Bob told me he would send a tow truck to have it pulled out. I went there at the appointed time and waited -- and waited. No tow truck and no Crazy Bob! The truck remained in the river from that time on. For years, you could see it from the highway as you drove by. Nowadays you probably have to stop on the south side of the river along the dirt road and climb down the bank to see what is left of that red truck.