BARE LAKE

When my good friends who ran the resort at Hatheheume Lake shut down, they suggested the fish camp at Bare Lake, in central British Columbia, as an alternate destination, so I convinced Sam that we should give it a try as our first excursion

In doing research for the trip, the first thing that we found out was that the BC government, in their wisdom, had decided to make the area surrounding the camp roadless, and off limits to motor vehicles. So the only means of ingress and egress would be a helicopter. (Using horses, or a horse and wagon, never seems to have occurred to the camp operators.)

Incidentally, in my view, helicopters, and horses, for that matter, are means of transportation not suited for civilized persons, and are to be avoided at all costs. But this was an emergency. There was no Beaver (airplane) to be chartered, so if we wanted to go fishing it was the helicopter or nothing.

But when we showed up at the Kamloops airport, at the appointed day and hour, it soon became apparent that the helicopter would not accommodate us, along with our baggage, and all the camp supplies, which were being ferried in.

So, we made the obvious decision and offloaded the propane tanks for the lodge, to make room for the four cases of Corona which we were bringing in, along with our duffel and fishing gear. All in all, we were probably about 200 pounds over the forty pound limit, which we had been told was mandatory.

So, after an uneventful 40 minute ride (if any ride in those horrific machines can be called uneventful) we set down at camp, and were welcomed by our hosts, Chuck and Jeannie, and a decidedly unfriendly dog.

Jeannie became a bit unfriendly as well, if not royally pissed, when she found her propane tanks, which were intended to fuel the lodge range, had been left behind in favor of our beer.

Sam made a few points with Chuck also, when he correctly suggested that the windows in the lodge, which had been installed by Chuck personally during a recent remodeling, had been put in upside down.

This all may have had something to do with why we were assigned to the oldest and smallest cabin in the place. Furnished with two cots and a rough table and chairs, the cabin also contained a washbasin, a composting toilet, a wood stove, and intermittently operating twelve volt lights. Not to mention a variety of spikes pounded into walls and beams to serve as elementary coat hooks.

In exploring the washhouse, we found that the hot water was produced by ancient flash heaters. These contraptions, which I had not seen since Europe in the ‘50s, had a gas flame which heated water in a coil, rather than a tank. When called upon to operate, they generally spit scalding steam or cold water, and sometimes both at the same time.

By now it was getting close to dinnertime, so we trooped into the lodge to have a beer and meet the rest of the staff. Two pretty girls in their late teens and a 13 year old boy.

These kids, like the staffs in most of these Canadian operations, were nieces and nephews from “Down East” who had been enticed to spend a summer vacation in the North Woods, but actually found themselves in involuntary servitude for the season. The problem with such arrangements, of course, is that you soon run out of prospective labor, as word on actual working conditions filters back home.

Fellow guests included three really repulsive characters form Seattle, one of whom claimed to be a Director of a major corporation, and an 85 year old retired judge. The judge seemed to have some influence, as he had the best cabin in the place, and his own boat. He had his future fishing trips planned in detail for the next 10 years, and spun impressive yarns about past excursions. Particularly interesting was his story about a trip to Chile where the fish cost him $3000 apiece. Seems that after catching three fish he became ill and had to be air evacuated out, at a cost approaching $9000.

About this time the dinner bell rang and we filed into the dining room and took our places. Jeannie, at the head of the table looked to be saying grace, but instead she launched into a lengthy speech about rules. Seems she and Chuck were the original tree huggers, and they had some doozeys. Among them being a strict catch and release policy on fishing, an admonition not to use too much wood, and a warning that under no circumstances was one to touch the showerheads.

Then came a subject hardly fit for polite dinner conversation, a lecture, in graphic detail, on how to use the composting toilets. Jeannie explained that you climb up on the contraption and do your business while precariously balancing yourself. You then scoop peat moss over the whole disgusting mess and turn a crank to mix things up. Sam, at this point, asked if he could simplify matters by simply putting the peat moss in his shorts, and I suggested that it might be easier just to go s… in the woods like the bears. While these remarks didn’t sit too well with Jeannie and Chuck, they did draw appreciative chuckles from the other guests, and best of all, effectively turned off the lecture.

Dinner was surprisingly good, considering that since there was no propane, it was cooked on the backup wood stove. We also ate by candlelight, since the normal lamps were fueled by propane as well.

After dinner and back on our porch, we had a couple more Coronas, along with a well earned cigar, and then rolled into the sack.

Next morning after breakfast, we tried the main lake. Lots of action, but the fish were a bit smallish. We did note though, that Chuck was continually watching us through binoculars, and whenever we got within hailing distance of the lodge he would call out “Be Careful of My Fish”. Kind of weird behavior, to say the least.

Next morning, tiring of Chuck’s oversight, we decided to try one of the remote lakes. Turned out that the 13 year old doubled as the guide, and he was dispatched to get us there.

Well, after traversing over hill and dale in what seemed like a trek across at least two counties, we finally arrived at our destination. This lake, to use the term loosely, seemed more like an oversize mud puddle, and was totally bereft of fish. Wildlife, though, was plentiful. A couple of moose and about a million mosquitoes.

The trip home was even longer and muddier that the one out. And was complicated by the fact that was now raining the proverbial cats and dogs. When we finally slogged into the cabin we were wet, cold, and too pooped to pant, but we did manage to get a roaring fire going. This got us thoroughly dried out, although we almost burned the cabin down in the process.

Oh yes, on both the trip out and back, Sam was busy educating the kid on the nefarious ways of women, and how to handle them, Sam style.

The kid, when he hit camp, immediately headed for his sisters, to try out some of this stuff he had learned from Sam, with predictably disastrous results.

So when we innocently went in for dinner, Sam got an earful, first from the sisters for filling a young kid’s mind with such garbage, and then from the kid, for getting him in trouble with his sisters. So now we had everyone in camp mad at us, except maybe the judge, who seemed bemused by this whole charade.

Things couldn’t get worse, we thought, but guess what, next morning things did. While fishing the far end of the lake a shear pin on the motor inexplicitly sheared, which is what shear pins are supposed to do. The real problem, though, was when Sam attempted to set things right, he dropped the propeller overboard. This necessitated a two-mile row on Sam’s part, into the wind and rain, to get us back to the lodge. Of course, during all of this, Chuck was watching us through his binoculars, but made no effort to come out in the available powerboat and tow us in.

This really upset Sam, so after a short council of war, we decided to cut the trip short and go out with the three imbeciles from Seattle, who were leaving the next day. This would necessitate an extra helicopter charter, but Jeannie seemed to think that it was well worth it.

So, next morning we bid fond adieu to Bare Lake. Some of our gear and the three jerks went out on the first chopper and we departed on the second. But our troubles were not over yet. Alighting from the machine in Kamloops, we found that our gear from the first aircraft was nowhere to be found. Seems that our “friends” had just thrown ALL of the gear, both theirs and ours, into their truck, and headed for Seattle.

This of course required several phone calls to straighten things out, with those idiots actually blaming us for the problem, and us finally having to drive clear into downtown Seattle to retrieve the gear.

But there is still more to the story. Predictably, the place went broke and was put up for sale. Sam and I enquired as to the particulars, and were told that only serious buyers need apply. When we explained that we could buy the place out of petty cash, and still have enough left over for beer and hot dogs, it turned out that Chuck and Jeannie, upon hearing of our interest, had told their estate agent (Canadian for Realtor) not to entertain a sale to us under any circumstances.

So, there went our dream of a second career as fishing camp hosts. We couldn’t figure out though, whether our wives were relieved or only disappointed.