Deep Cove to Brighton Beach Overland – 19
By: Wayne Smith Nov. 2/07
Three miles was the real distance as the crow flies, but it had felt more like fifty miles to us. Drew Davidson, Dan McCloud, and myself were neighborhood friends of about 10 years old, out on a summer adventure. Drew Davidson’s family cabin on Burrard Inlet was our goal. This long narrow fjord, running north from Vancouver on the south coast of British Columbia, held a few small communities that were only accessible by water, or so it was said. We believed the summer cabin could be reached on foot. Looking back, I would have to agree with local knowledge at the time - “Water access only.”As ten-year-olds, we were often looking for a challenge. Dan and I had hiked together over rough trails on Seymore Mountain. Drew was a sensible fellow. He had traveled the length of Indian Arm many times with his father in their old wooden boat, the “Gayleen”. I respected him for his knowledge.
Drew’s father, Andy Davidson, was a neighbor who lived near our home on Beaufort Rd. above Deep Cove. He had built his summer cabin at Brighton Beach as a retreat from the ever-expanding city of North Vancouver. Andy would sometimes take Dan, Drew and myself with them to the cabin. The trip over the beautiful waters of Burrard Inlet, on the Gayleen was great fun, but we wanted to do it on our own. Having no boat, we could only dream.
Drew Davidson, Molly Davidson (Drew's Mom) & Dan Macloud on board the Gaylene (60's)
As we grew older and more sure-footed, the notion arose amongst us that we could hike to Brighton Beach whenever we wanted. Through the winter months Drew, Dan, and I talked up the walk. By summer the idea had taken root in our young minds: “Brighton Beach or Bust” seemed to be our attitude.
The shoreline at low tide seemed walkable.
Out on the water, looking back from the Gayleen the distance from Deep Cove to Brighton Beach didn’t seem that far; little did we know how wrong we would be. Had we all realized the monumental task we were about under-take, I think we surely would have borrowed a rowboat. But, common sense and the spirit of youth take a while to catch up to each other, as was evident the day we headed out. No one was told where we were going – we hadn’t even thought about getting back. We were three kids on an adventure, and somehow things would work out.
Our test of endurance began on a summer day in July 1961. The morning found us strolling the shoreline of Deep Cove bay. Sandwiches quietly spirited from the family kitchen filled our pockets. It was nine o’clock, an easy start, but a little late in hindsight. The soft mud of the beach squished around our running shoes as we made our way past Panarama Park and our local swimming beach. The cold creek water flowing from high in the mountains chilled our feet as it raced over slimy, seaweed-covered rocks along the shore. The going was easy – fun – and camaraderie struck high as a warm sun shone its way for us: three ill prepared – uninformed youngsters.
On the air, whiffs of creosote, used to preserve dock pilings, warned us away from sticky black surfaces and mother’s wrath at the mess it made of our clothes. Broken clamshells, dropped by the birds, crunched beneath our damp canvas running shoes. Gulls, perched on wharf pilings, hawked and squawked rude warnings down upon us. A gentle morning breeze filled the air with a distinctive low tide aroma, and our nostrils were full with the scent of adventure.
To our left along Panarama Drive beach front homes stood high above us, Fully bathed in morning sunlight, their glassy fronts reflected a new growing concern for more light and better water views. Where there was room to walk the beach, the dock-owners were courteous, stopping to shake their heads in disbelief at our Brighton Beach destination. Where beach access grew slim we had to cross over the docks instead of under them. homeowners grew suspicious of us, thinking we had come to pinch something from their docks, they waved us off their property.
The beach after Art George’s Marina all but disappeared. There was no trail to follow so we began the first of many inland treks to find a way around steep rock faces and the thick dense bush. Thorny blackberry vines gripped our clothes, and prickly salmon berry bushes rose up in dense clumps blocking our way. Many times we had to return the way we had come, stopped by steep canyon walls too dangerous to climb. At one point I slipped down a steeply angled rock cliff, and my undershirt gathered enough rips to disgrace mom’s rag collection. Our pockets, soon empty of sandwiches, were filled with bits of damp moss, broken twigs, and assorted leaves, our hands and faces were covered in muck and dirt. We began to take on a desperate look of homeless people, and all felt a little afraid, though no one would admit to it.
Scouting a passable route was the hardest part. We traded off, one lead for a while, and when he became exhausted, another would move forward to search through the bush ahead. Hope came when someone called from the undergrowth “he’d found a game trail”, to be replaced by disappointment when the trail disappeared, and we had made only ten feet along the shoreline. I remember the crashing sounds of breaking branches as the three of us fought our way out of one dead end after another. I remember arms reaching down, helping hands reaching up, fingers locked in a desperate grip, legs sore with bruises, and I remembered countless times, the length of rope, we never bothered to bring.
A moment of relief came with a downed tree that made a bridge over a deep ravine.
Cautiously we slid along on the seats of our pants, not caring to look down. Below us lay a heavy tangley of spiny Devil’s Club, its prickly stalks ready if we happened to slip into its grasp.
Where sunlight failed to reach us the shiny black stems of lacy maidenhair ferns clustered in graceful nodding sprays, high over our heads, gave us a moment of beauty before we pushed on.
The tide too had been moving, it had filled the inlet behind us. The mud and gravel shoreline was nearly gone, and made travel along the beach treacherous, if not impossible. Many times we clung to the last bit of ledge above high water, praying for a handhold, inching our toes and fingers into whatever cracks the barnacles and mussels hadn’t claimed.
Tired, dirty, and thirsty we sipped at what water could be found. We cupped our hands into cold clear streams rushing over slimy round rocks or held our tongues out to little drips that fell down a wet rock face. Progress was slow, the afternoon wore on, time however kept moving and we couldn’t ignore it.
The beach homes had long since vanished behind us, and we began leaning out around rocky out-crops, searching the shoreline ahead for any sign of the familiar community of Brighton Beach, we now so desperately sought. Anything – a piling – a wharf – the cabin - would be cause for great relief. Besides, it was close to dinnertime. The lunchtime sandwiches were just a distant memory and our stomachs growled at the idea of spending a cold, supper-less night in the bush.
We were losing the sun behind Mount Seymore when the first glimmer of hope reached us.
“I think I see it!” Drew called, and pointed his finger from a high vantage point on top of a tree stump.
“What? The dock?”
“No, our cabin!”
With the sudden thought of new hope a burst of energy took us and we crashed our way forward like bears through tangled trees and branches. Broad smiles and laughing eyes replaced our grim look of distress. Hope had come at last.
In joyous fits of laughing we pushed on. At the next bend in the shoreline there was no doubt, we had made it, Brighton Beach lay just ahead. Drew’s cabin was unmistakable on the edge of a cliff, and the community dock with glorious boats safely tied alongside. We jumped down together from the last bolder, our feet landing is soft mud. I glanced back only once along that terrible shoreline, then ran and staggered the last hundred yards towards the group of tiny cottages and freedom.
Our relief was immense, we ached everywhere and all felt more than a bit foolish for our adventure. In the end we trudged, not for a relaxed kip at the Davidson’s cabin, but went straight to old Mr. Price’s little hut.
Mr. Price was a full time resident of Brighton Beach, wise, respected, and he had a boat. If we were ever to get home by suppertime he was the man to help us.
“You did what!” He announced as he shook his head at the three shabby boys who stood on his doorstep. I somehow knew we would hear more of this. Mr. Price had retired to Brighton Beach, preferring his peace and privacy to city clamor of nearby Vancouver. A gentle heat from his wood stove and familiar antiques on the cabin walls surrounded his days. Turning slowly he ran his fingers through what was left of his hair.
“Come on in… he said paused in thought at his doorstep. We’d better try to contact your folks… Do they know where you are?”
Uh... well not really we replied.”
An old grandfather clock stood between an ancient flintlock musket and a long silver sword on the wall, struck five o’clock as we stepped into the tiny cabin. All the tidy comforts of home were there, collectibles bathed in soft light, graced the walls, a gentle warmth from the wood stove added a feeling of comfort, and well being. We savored the relief to our aching joints and muscles, as we sank deeply into old leather armchairs. Slowly we unraveled our adventure to Mr. Price who still appeared dazed by our sudden desperate arrival on his doorstep. He seemed lost in his thoughts until he mentioned a boat ride back to Deep Cove. Our three wide grins and dirty faces nodded rapidly in joyous agreement.
A wonderful idea Mr. Price, we all agreed, "thank-you so much – that’s the best plan we’ve heard all day, were very grateful!”
Our thank-you’s continued for some time until, a phone call home to Drew’s dad was made. We listened in dread to the dark mumblings coming from a back room, as plans were made. Mr. Davidson could be unreasonable at times, we feared the worst.
Within fifteen minuets of our arrival at Brighton Beach, Mr. Price had piled us all into his aluminum car toper boat and speed back to the Government Dock in Deep Cove. Mr. Davidson met us there standing on the dock looking stern and revolutionary. No one ever disagreed with Andy Davidson. He was well known for giving sudden loud blasts of his opinion. We braced ourselves, “Now what did you want to do that for?” was all he said, before he drove us back to our homes on Beaufort rd. We had nothing to say for ourselves, but I think in some way Andy knew why we did it, after all Brighton was his retreat too.
By quarter to six I was stepping in our back door. The wonderful smell of moms home cooked stew and fresh crusty rolls filled our home. Mom was preoccupied with other things and didn’t see me come in. I cleaned up quickly, made my way to the dinner table, sat down beside my two young sisters and said,
“We went on a hike to Brighton Beach today, it sure was tough.”
“That’s nice dear, Tina I want you in bed early tonight, and Yvonne, make sure you eat all your peas.”
7 comments:
Your very welcome Terri and Nathan
I haven't seen Drew since school days.
Perhaps you could send a link to him to see if he remembers our adventure.
I wonder if he is still doing lighting for the movies?
Dan Macloud has long ago died of a rare case of TB.
My guess is you would be a son or daughter of Maureen Davidson or Mo, as Drew used to call her.
Andy was quite a character around Deep Cove, and a diver.
Did you know he speared the largest ling cod in Burrard Inlet.
He said it weighed 90 lbs.
It had a huge belly and pulled him around under water before he got it in the boat.
Drew and I went with him on the Galleen to many dive sights around Burrard Inlet. We watched their bubbles coming up from the deep and I often wondered what it was like down there.
The Galleen sprung a gas leak and blew Andy out the back of the boat.
The explosion nearly killed him.
That was the end of the Galeen it burned and sank near Art Georges Marina.
I have written many short memories now and I am 58 years old.
I enjoy reading them on stage at coffee houses and writers events.
Anyway glad you liked my memories
Cheers
Wayne Smith
778-888-6250
Cove View Accommodations
1955 Banbury Rd. N. Van.
Hi Terry and Nathan
I am very saddened to hear about your mother, Maureen.
I remember her as a young girl about 14 years old in the basement of Andy's home. It was memorable as she had nothing on from the waist up. She was standing smiling at me while washing her hair in the laundry sink.
"Hows your mother she asked"
I am sure I went all red in the face and looked at the ground.
Drew said his usual thing,
"Oh Mo!"
I remember another touching moment in the Davidson's Cabin.
Your mother and I were alone and I was hungry it was well past lunch time. Your mom found us a can of salmon and we opened it and shared it, together each taking turns at a forkful from the can.
If I had have been old enough I would have said it was romantic.
But we moved away and I lost all contact with the Davidsons and our other childhood friends around the Beaufort rd. area.
Sad to hear Drew has little to do with his family. I can say little else, I hope it doesn't take his death bed to change him. Life is so short.
I would love a picture of the Galleen. And with your permission post it in my story.
And those three boys could very well be Drew, Don Macloud and me Wayne Smith. Id love to have a copy for my story.
Yes people do love my stories
I get a lot of pleasure reading them on stage. I see smiling faces and big rounds of applause. I was asked tonight if I would like to read on Radio.
"Yes I said I would."
So maybe one day you can hear me on 102.7 fm reading about my Deep Cove adventures.
I was surprised and happy to see Andy and Mollie are still alive.
I was told wrongly that Andy had died some time ago.
I had last seen them at a lake above Okanogan Lake. I was shocked to run into them again after 40 years. We chatted about the Gallen days. Then I climbed into my truck and watched them standing together waving goodbye. I know what they were thinking.
"I doubt we will ever see him again."
Well, now I see a picture of two old souls still alive, and remember
The more I write the more memories come back. But anyway Cheers for now.
Wayne
I am so sorry that I had to delete my posts wayne, it seems that my ex's girlfriend has stalked me via your blog and my comments/links here.
http://terrinathang.wordpress.com/
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