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.

Mates forever, forever drinking

I was at a pal's house drinking Margaritas, and we were have a great time, even though he was getting pissed with me for throwing limes off the balcony.

"The limes are green, the lawn's green, what's the problem?" I asked.

We ran out of tequila, but luckily he happened to live across the street from a liquor store. You could call me impulsive, but I like to think of myself as adventurous, always ready to try something new. So, I scored a bottle of mescal.

Back at his place we had the tunes cranked, and we were feeling good, singing and having a good time. I didn't even care that we ran out of limes - I was drinking the stuff right out of the bottle. And being the up-for-a-challenge guy that I am, I ate the worm. (They put a prize in the bottom of each bottle of mescal.)

Even a bottle of mescal, which probably tastes like turpentine if you're not hammered, won't last forever. With all the booze gone, we decided to go to the bar.

Drinking mescal makes you ask the deep, philosophical questions. Like, did the mescal make me to it, or deep-down am I an asshole? Anyway, for whatever reason, for no apparent reason really, as we were walking down the street, I swung around and punched him in the nose.

"Enough of this bullshit," he said, and stomped away.

I went to the bar and had a couple of beers. But it was a country and western bar, and really, incredibly boring, so I hopped on a bus and rode back up to his place.

I pounded on the door, but he wouldn't answer. I walked down the stairs, out onto the lawn and climbed up onto a fence and then reached up and pulled myself onto his balcony. I went inside but he wasn't around, all I found was a pizza on the coffee table. It had one piece missing. Right then, I realized how hungry I was, so I sat down and ate the rest of the pizza. Then I stretched out on the couch and fell asleep.

The next morning, he walked through the living room, and muttered something like, "What the hell are you doing here?"

I kind of took that as my cue that maybe I should take off.

But just to show you what great mates you make while drinking, despite all that crap I did, punching him in the nose, eating his pizza, and even throwing limes all over his lawn, we're still pals. Yeah, he even phoned me the next day to see if I wanted to go for a few beers.

I think we'll be mates forever, as long as we're still pounding them back. And with friends like him, why would a guy ever quit?

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.