The Hill

When I was in high school the really cool thing was I owned a big, old Chrysler with a 383. I had bought it with money I had earned helping out in my dad's machine shop. One summer, a friend of mine and I decided we'd go on a road trip. His parents had a cabin up in Willams Lake, 550 Km (340 mi) from our home in Vancouver.

When we got to his parent's cabin, he asked me if I wanted to drive out to Bella Coola. Bella Coola's on the coast about 450 km (280 mi) west of Williams Lake. I said sure. Before starting out, we stopped by the liquor store and talked someone into buying us a jug of wine and a couple of cases of beer.

We had a blast driving across the Chilcotin, drinking and looking at amazing scenery. The rolling grasslands and distant mountain ranges made us think we were traveling in Africa. We played with the electric windows and laughed and sang. We saw almost no one except an old guy with Fedora in a black Cadillac. He looked like "The Godfather" of the wilderness. We laughed a lot about that.

But we hadn’t counted on "The Hill." Where the Chilcotin plateau ends and the Coast Mountains begin, the road goes from three lanes of gravel down to one. It snakes through mountain passes and plunges from its height at 5000 feet down to sea level. Some cat–skinners built it on their own because the government said it couldn't be done. They put up signs telling drivers not to get out of their cars.

The other thing we didn't count on was the effect of two hundred miles of steady drinking. At the beginning it was all laughing and singing, but when we hit "The Hill" we were getting... emotional. I was driving and crying and slugging my buddy over stuff going on in high school, and he was slugging me.

After a mile or so, we realized how horribly we would die if I drove us off the road. We forgot about high school. The only thing we talked about was getting down "The Hill." I eased off the gas, and took the switch–back turns like I was threading the Chrysler through a needle. By the time we reached the bottom of "The Hill" we were acting sober, even if we weren't.

We pulled into Bella Coola and stopped at the cafe for pie and coffee. When we came out, I noticed all the Chrysler's tires were flat. I didn't care much, I was just glad to be alive.

I didn't drink behind the wheel after that.

The Godfather of the Wilderness

When I was nineteen I lived in a dive behind the Pay & Save gas station in North Van. But the cool thing about my life at that time was I owned a big Chrysler with a 383.

A friend of mine showed up and said he had broken up with his girlfriend and needed to go up to Williams Lake to pick up his stuff. The Chrysler was the car for the trip. When we got to Willams Lake, he cleaned out his place and then said let's drive out to Bella Coola. Bella Coola's a couple hundred miles from Williams Lake, on a dirt road over the Chilcotin Plateau and through a mountain range in Tweedsmuir Provincial Park. Before starting out, we stopped by the liquor store to pick up a jug of wine and two-four of beer.

We had a blast driving across the Chilcotin, drinking and looking at the scenery which looked like Africa to us. We played with the electric windows and laughed and sang. We saw almost no one except an old guy with Fedora in a black Cadillac. He looked like "The Godfather" of the wilderness. We laughed a lot about that.

Once you leave the Chilcoltin and start heading through the Tweedsmuir, the road goes from being flat and wide down to something just wide enough for one vehicle. It takes you down about three thousand feet to the coast. Some catskinners built it on their own because the goverment said it couldn't be done. They call it "The Hill." And I was getting drunk. We had gone through some stuff in high school and we were getting emotional about that. I was driving and crying and slugging him, and he was slugging me.

After a mile or so, we figured out what would happen if I drove us off the road. By the time we reached the bottom of "The Hill" we were sober.

In Bella Coola, we dragged ourselves into the cafe for pie and coffee and when we came out I noticed all the Chrysler's tires were flat. I guess I hadn't noticed how rough the road was.

That should have been the end of my drinking behind the wheel. But I was nineteen. And it wasn't.

Drinking Stories (1)

For some reason, I like reminiscing about dumb things I did before I knew better.

I used to live behind the Pay & Save gas station in a one bedroom apartment, a dive, but the cool thing was I owned a Chrysler 300 with a 383 and electric everything (mostly working). I paid $500 for it.

A friend of mine showed up one day. He said he had broken up with his girlfriend and needed to go up to Williams Lake to pick up his stuff. The Chrysler was the car for the trip. When we got to Willams Lake, he cleaned out his place and then said let's drive out to Bella Coola. Bella Coola's a couple hundred miles from Williams Lake, on a dirt road over the Chilcotin Plateau and through a mountain range in Tweedsmuir Provincial Park. Before starting out, we stopped by the liquor store to pick up a jug of wine and two-four of beer.

We had a blast driving across the Chilcotin, drinking and looking at turquoise rivers and grasslands out of an African safari. We played with the electric windows and bombed down the road with no cares. One time we saw an old guy with Fedora in a black Cadillac. He looked like "The Godfather" of the wilderness. We laughed a lot about that.


But by the time we got to the Tweedsmuir we were hammered. I was driving and crying and slugging him about shit that went on in high school, and he was slugging me. It was not a good time to be doing that because the road through the Tweedsmuir's a narrow, dirt track that takes you down couple or three thousand feet. Some catskinners build it on their own because the goverment said it couldn't be done. They call it "The Hill."


We sobered up by the time we reached the bottom. In Bella Coola, we dragged ourselves into the cafe for pie and coffee and when we came out I noticed all the Chrysler's tires were flat. I guess I was so drunk I didn't notice how rough the road was.

What did I learn? Nothing.

Driving in America

I lost my coat in America
walked around in the state campsite
in what’s left of their
vast wilderness

...The Golden Age

In America, men have jaws of stone
they pulled their few possesions and small children
in handcarts
to the New World
wives walking behind
praying
They sell comic books for religion down there,
have motel beds that massage you for a quarter,
T.V. shows about Hitler’s teeth,
and gossip
in the frozen food section

In a liquor store a black man called a white man
a brother
white man protested showing me the colour of
their skins
I said I thought it was a form of expression
they laughed
someone mentioned a fight
I ducked

Damn coat
always blame someone else for the things I lost
Ma said things will work out in the end
that's when
I was too young for her to know me
That coat’s gone for sure

So many miles in the desert
makes a family want to explode
look at that horizon
you can’t see anything else
makes you forget where you left your coat
looks like rain
hope it won't last long
It's getting dark
I better go find her
I saw a guy today
lives in a bathroom off the Interstate

Hey, we’re tourists
picture taking, stone arches
stepping around the U-Haul
river rafting the Colorado
Santa Fe Chicken
coffee in the pub
driving down from the mountain’s deer and poplar trees
to the red sugar bowl, by the Colorado
feet in the muddy river
off roading
slickrock, lizards, and bats
kids working tables
up to my neck in Navaho jewelry
This lady tells us her grandad’s a medicine man in a teepee
up on a mountain
eating peyote
Sure, we just need a place to sleep

The Grand Canyoon
Ick komme mit Deutschlander
The sight every American should see
Il ne parle Francais, mais il essaye
Cin-cin
tip the water jug back
Morning, dusk, walls like rust
and winnd

It’s a journey, I tell her

East Arizona’s the bottom of a tide pool
barrel cactus and yucca trees
Lake Mead - blue playing field
Have fun!
(they’re driving off to gamble)
Fat man cleans a fish
That’s a good fish!
Baseball hat on the porch says,
Sold three thousand bags of ice!

Wind carries the heat under the curry smelling tree
smell from the what’s-that-flower? rides the heat
Viking woman cradles her baby
rides a fast boat
her husband tows to the lake
We talked to a philospher
Knew he was, he smiled so…
unexpectedly
lives in a camper with his dog

Viva fucking Las Vegas!
Wayne Newton’s down with flu
Three-forty-nine breakfast in the Paradise Buffet
We sneak past the slot machines
to the res-taur-rant
birds sing caa-caa, ooee-ooee
Don Ho: moookie looukie loww
Guitar: twayiianng
An angel: no doggie bags in Paradise

On edge
I watch butterflies
cartwheel over the hood of my new truck
going down into Death Valley

Wind alway blows
In California it blows sand
from the lake drained for L.A.
driving it thirty forty miles an hour down the highway
into my new truck

I snap
get out behind a shack
read a threat in the window
rub the pits in the windshield
listen to country radio
sandblast my legs on the highway
see a hole and go
wind knocks the truck around
like those butterflies

We stop at a drive-in
I consume
coffee, Marlboros, french fries
see her back as she runs away across the parking lot
to call her mother
I go
quietly fetch her

Drive north into June snow
so
Motel 6 ecstasy

Can’t wash a truck in Mammoth
(like to keep ma truck clean)

Over the Sierra
love them snowy streams and rocks and trees
down to drive the Yosemite
500
take pictures of Park Rangers and waterfalls

In the west, grassland lies rumpled like golden fur
Lake Shasta, skirted in red dirt
needs a top-up

I-5 North to home
timberline
home
home green
Jungle!

Vibes

She thought about flagging down a car if one came along. No, Vibes would be her best bet, not much of a bet but the best one she had. She heard the sound of gravel crunching under tires and the Chrysler came into view rolling heavily over the wooden bridge and then tipping as it turned onto the blacktop. She ran over, pulled open the rear door, and dove in.

“Go, go!” she yelled.

Vibes stepped on the gas. After they accelerated up to speed, Marilyn sat up. They sped down the blacktop and she looked out at the lines of blueberry bushes flashing past, avoiding Vibes’s glances in the rear view mirror. The road came to a “T” at a dyke and the Chrysler’s tires chirped around the corner.

“Where are you going?” he asked, grinning.

Her eyes met his in the mirror, for a moment. “To my mother’s, on the north shore.”

He nodded. They reached the freeway and car’s rear end sank as they accelerated up the onramp. Vibes guided the car into the passing lane and settled back into his seat with a finger crooked around the wheel. She stabbed the window button with her finger, lowering the rear window halfway. She stared out, thinking her own thoughts, as the air blew around strands of her hair.

He looked at her in the mirror. “Why don’t you sit up front?”

“I’m okay.”

He looked ahead. “The speakers are shot. The radio’s only AM anyway.”

“I’m not in the mood for music right now.”

The car hurled down the freeway, coming up behind a sedan with kids jumping around in the back. She looked at the surprised faces of the family as they passed and she frowned, staring at the back of his head. After they passed another car, she asked, “Aren’t you, like, carrying a load of weed in the trunk?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Don’t take me for an idiot. That’s a mistake, ‘Vibes’.”

He looked in the mirror.

“And keep your eyes on the road!”

“That would be easier if you sat up here. I’m getting a sore neck.” He smiled.

She said nothing for a minute. “I think you should slow down. If the bulls pull you over we’ll both get popped.”

He did a double take, and stared at her in the mirror. She glared back at him. He returned his eyes to the road and slowed down, close to the speed limit.

After another minute or so, he said, “You want to sit up here, now?”

“I don’t like dealers,” she said.

He lifted a hand in the air. “What’re you talking about?”

“You’re a dealer.”

“I’m not.”

“How much grass are you carrying?”

“A couple of hundred kilos I guess.”

“A couple of hundred and you’re not a dealer? Yeah, right.”

That shut him up. The big car ran smooth over the highway, the seat was big and comfortable, and she liked breathing in the cool air coming through the window. She liked sitting quietly, without the need to pretend or be somebody for someone.

“This is just a one time thing,” he said.

“I’ve heard that before.”

He bided his time for bit, and then said, “I got plans to get out of town. Come on, sit up here, and let me tell you about Whistler.”

“I’ve heard it all before, Vibes.”

“Here, read this.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

She opened the paper. She read…

Whistler

The shack has coffee, burning cedar

Spring draws me outside

light, melting snow, water crazy glistening,

puppy pawing a piece of ice

Hear spring breaking on the lake - the ice cracking

sounds as potent as a falling star

gentle as a dream

Windblown clouds, minnows swimming under ice

I love wet ice, touch it's cool water, and drink

I lie, I dream by the lake, I hear snow

fall from the tree branches

I hear the boot crunch

You touch my neck I smell your soap

She frowned. “Where did you get this?”

“I wrote it.”

She looked at the poem. “No way, Vibes.”

“Yeah, I wrote it. See…” He jabbed a finger in the air. “That’s what this is all about.”

Vibes