MISSING

*
By

Const. H. O. Jamieson

*

“Whatever possesses men that they should come to exist in
such a gloomy wilderness,_and what tradition of service
sends the B.C. Provincial Police on their tratl.”’ Whether it
1s to track down a vicious killer or atid a lonely trapper the
“prouincials’ are ever ready to undertake a gruelling patrol

FOR SEVERAL days I had been
istening to the residents of the small
orthern trading post of Telegraph
‘reek, B.C., as they voiced their
oncern and opinions as to what had
appened to old Hugh Ford.

Hugh Ford, taciturn prospector
nd trapper lived alone on the upper
eaches of the Stikine River. Once a
rear he made his trip to Dease Lake
yx Telegraph Creek, bringing a few
kins to be traded for flour, beans,
ea and sugar. It was Ford’s boast
hat he lived ‘‘tougher’’ than any
ndian. The Indians did not deny
bis. Few of them ever traveled
hrough Ford’s country.

Towards the end of September it
yecame clear that some calamity had
vefallen the old man. One day I
lrove to Dease Lake to make arrange-
nents with Jimmy McGregor, a
young and husky Scotsman to ac-
ompany me into the Upper Stikine
ountry. Jimmy claimed to know
art of this country, having been
hrough one winter with his dog
eam. It was, however, still too early
n the season to use a sleigh. We
jecided we would take two of his
logs and three of mine as packers,
vhilst we ourselves would pack our
»wn sleeping robes and spare cloth-
ng on pack-boards. I have hated
ack-boards ever since.

Returning to Telegraph Creek, I
spent the next few days getting ready
for the long journey. Dog-packs had
‘0 be overhauled, supplies purchased,
ind, considering the relatively unex-
plored country through which we
were to travel, our proposed routes
had to be carefully checked on the
maps available.

I had a prisoner in jail at Tele-
graph Creek, an Indian named Mike
McKluskey. Mike was delighted
when I told him he was to come
With us as a general handyman. He
hated to chop wood and do the other
chores around the jail, and required

TWENTIETH EDITION

in B.C.’s frozen northland.

no urging to roll his ragged bed-roll
in order to spend the balance of his
visit with the Law under the stars
in his beloved Cassiar.

Unable to borrow a light enough
sleeping robe to back-pack, I was

Telegraph Creek,

obliged to take my cheap snug robe.
Never exactly snug, on this trip it
cost me many hours of sleeplessness
and misery.

On the morning of September 30,
1945, I bundled Mike and my three
dogs, Major, Colonel and Marten,
in the back of my pick-up truck. I
kissed my wife good-bye and with
excited dogs and a cheerful Indian
we headed out into the unknown.

A NORTHERN HIGHROAD

The sky was lowering as we
started. I fervently hoped we would

get to Dease Lake before the grey
clouds began to discharge their rain.
Now, the Dease Lake Road is a high-
way compared with what it was a
few years ago, but even now a few
minutes of rain turns it into a morass.
Around 1930 it used to take truckers
days to get into the Lake, and one
can still spend days in a single mud
hole.

The weeping curtain of clouds
came closer, and just as we com-
menced to descend the dreaded Tuya
River hill, the rain came pelting
down. In a few moments the little
truck began to slide ominously, caus-
ing me to perspire gently and causing
the dark eyes of Mike to roll in ap-
prehension. However, we made the
bottom of the hill. Mike and I put
on chains and off we went, plough-
ing through mud and water, up hill
and down dale, until at 64 mile, Bob
Farrell and his old truck, christened
Clarabelle, showed up through the
mist. Poor Bob was in trouble. He
was on his way from Telegraph
Creek to Dease Lake with a big load
of groceries when Clarabelle, in what
must have been a wanton fit of tem-
per, threw a piston out of the side
of the engine block. We discussed
the hussy, Clarabelle, in appropriate
terms, finally deciding that a spare
engine and help was required. There-
fore, I loaned Bob my tent, so as to
give him shelter for the night, whilst
my pick-up truck went back for a
spare engine and help. The delay
was annoying, but it was all part of

the job.
ON THE TRAIL

Arriving back at Dease Lake after
this little interlude, I found Jimmy
and Mike had all the packs made up
and were set to go. The dogs seemed
excited at the prospect of action, and,
after a lunch in Jimmy’s trapping
cabin, I bade my truck a reluctant
good-bye and off we went.

From the beginning it was inter-
Page Fifteen