Discovery

Discovery

My encounter with the Telegraph Trail began in the summer of 1953. Although I had not yet started a diary, I remember very clearly the day that I first stumbled onto the beautiful old trail.

It was totally overgrown, in places, and choked with windfalls. But hidden under the tangled cover could still be seen the continuity of a well worn trail. A trail that had obviously been worn and rounded into shape by hundreds and thousands of feet of both man and beast. In places, the moss had long since spread over the trail. But, the indent still showed through. Upon looking down the trail, one could see the original right-of-way. It showed as a distinct gash through the mature forest. As unnatural as the first cut must have been, it had healed with time and does not now seem out of place. But, rather it has become a part of the natural forest.

I was intrigued by unexpectedly finding such a forgotten and neglected link with the past. I followed it a short way and discovered that it seemed to lead on and on. So began my love affair with the Telegraph Trail.

Trails and footpaths are fascinating. Curiosity compels one to see over the next hill or around the next bend. From where did it start? To what charming places does it lead? Who has used it before?

In time I began to clear and to follow the mysterious old trail. I spent weekends exploring it. Sometimes, even after work, I would go out for a few hours and cut the brush away from it. At first, I simply used an axe and painstakingly cut each stem and branch off separately, close to the ground. In rocky areas, that proved to be hard on the blade. Much later, I found better tools and methods.

Through this intimate, hands on contact, I learned to love every switch-back, every rise and every downgrade of the entire trail that I uncovered along the way. I was enchanted. I had found a long-lasting project, something I could devote my life to.

That year, I was a teenager and still living at home with my parents, sisters and a younger brother on our ranch along the Blackwater Road, ten miles northwest of Quesnel, in central British Columbia. The trail went right across the four hundred acres of our place. We had recently moved to the Cariboo District from Washington State and everything was new and exciting to me. I could hardly wait the mandatory five years to become a Canadian citizen.

The next time our friend and long time resident, old Jim Peters, came up from the river to leave his team and wagon at our place on his way to town, I asked him what he knew about the old trail. He mentioned something about an old telegraph line and many pack-trains. I boldly announced that I was going to clear the trail. He asked me how far. I replied "As far as it goes." To that astonishing statement, he exclaimed, "Hell man, it goes all the way to the Yukon.!" Ah, how grand are the plans of youth!

Undaunted, I continued to hack away at the trail in my spare time. Eventually, I had it cleared as far down as the schoolhouse that used to be located on Six Mile Hill. On occasion, for the adventure, I would ride down the trail on horseback to attend the Sunday school service that was held in the one room school. Part of the trail followed the main road, but some of it was off from the road.

I especially enjoyed the Bouchie Creek crossing. At that time, there were no houses close by, just tall trees of a spruce and pine forest and the creek that tumbled over moss covered boulders. The trail angled down the side of the canyon and then switched directions back up the opposite side.

While my horse was drinking, prior to splashing across the creek, I would lean back in the saddle and daydream a bit. I could travel back in time to a different age, to yesteryear --- the summer of 1866.