Rafting Adventures

Back in the 90s, my then partner, Max, and I sold our climbing shop and moved out to the Chilliwack River Valley. It was the perfect location for both our guiding company and burgeoning paragliding business. The location was chosen for its graceful cedars and towering firs, its fine proximity to the landing site for paragliding flights off Elk Mountain, and its more than fine distance from the ‘Wack town centre (otherwise known as Chilliwack). Although a lot has changed, in those years the town was mostly known for its military base, a high prevalence of spousal abuse, and the predominance of cows. A lovely city, it was.

The following excerpt is taken from our rafting … ahhhh, that is, Canadian Tire rubber boat adventure down the Chilliwack River. Our plan was to put in not far from the Ford Mountain Correctional Institute (prison camp) and exit just before the Tamihi rapids, also known as practice ground for the Olympic team. The river run has a tale of its own, but here in the preamble to that story is yet another tale worth telling.

Chilliwack had several of these minimum security prison camps. You saw the unfortunate inmates doing work on the logging roads, with their guards leaning on their trucks in half-hearted alertness. It felt strange encountering them on my runs. Most often I would turn back, but then again, because of my living situation, I felt a certain ease with the situation: the neighbour to the right of us had a rather alarming reputation. He was a convicted rapist who had done his time and now, suitably repentant, lived the life of a clean country boy with his rambunctious black lab. I never liked him, the man I mean. Rumours about him abounded before he moved in, making me wary even before we met. He never liked me, either. Too independent, he’d say to Max. Max and I had been having relational difficulties that summer, and more often than not were yelling at each other rather than conversing in a mannerly way. Being an observant kind of guy―I guess you get that way in prison―this neighbhour would take Max aside and give him brotherly advice. She’s too butch-like, he’d say, got to put the law down. Max listened politely but ignored him for the most part. He was all for good neighbourly relations, seeing as we ran a business out of our house. I waived the polite civility and just ignored him.

Usually after a good day of paragliding, students and friends convened back at our house for shop-talk, food and drink. On this particular day, one of the students, having just become a father, passed around a cigar as they all sat in the back of the Chevy pickup. A few hours later, an RCMP officer was at our door. A friendly enough guy, he chatted his way inside the house. He said there was a report of dope smoking here and wanted to hear what we had to say about it. Max laughed, Oh, he said, you mean the passing around of a cigar in the back of a truck? We quickly cleared up the situation and then got serious. Who reported us? Well, the cop said, your neighbor did. A little dumbfounded, we asked, You do know about him, don’t you? Oh, yes, he said, we know all about him, but there are worse in this neighbourhood. Worse? Our minds cried out. What? Terrorists? Murderers? Kidnappers? Our thoughts ran rampant, but we kept them to ourselves. The officer looked around in case there were other ears nearby…  There’s dope growers up the hill. Thank god you are on the job, Constable. The neighbor eventually committed fraud with his girlfriend accountant and ran off to the Cayman Islands.

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