It was raining steadily sometime in the summer as I drove through Boston Bar and the Fraser Canyon. Summer rain in the canyon and beyond, is needed and welcomed, dampening the forests for a few days or a week and lowering the danger of fires.
He was walking in the steady rain, on the right side of the highway. His thumb wasn’t out, he was just walking along in the rain.
I stopped—who enjoys walking in the rain? There were no houses or any buildings along that stretch of highway. He wasn’t carrying a bag or suitcase, I surmised he was a local.
He opened the door and got in. He was Native, in his sixties, perhaps early sixties.
“Wasn’t really hikin’, ” he said, “just walkin’ on the side. If somebody stopped to pick me up, good, if not, only got a couple of miles to walk home. And I’m pretty well soaked now anyhow,” he laughed.
He was a good-looking, clean-shaven fellow dressed in jeans, denim jacket and dripping ball cap.
“Is your house right beside the highway on the right-hand side up ahead?” I asked.
“Ya, the green one, first house after the band cemetery.”
“I know the house!” I said,.“You got a nice house with a big deck on the west side looking down over the Fraser.”
“That’s it,” he said proudly. “Built most of it myself after I retired. I worked on the tugs for 25 years.”
“On the tugs!” I said. “I bet you’ve got a lot of stories working on tugs in the ocean for that long.”
He was very wet and his dampness was filling the cab. He wasn’t a smoker: I could tell if a hiker was a smoker within 15 seconds after I picked him up. He was a good walker, a retired tugboat crewman who probably saved his money and built his own house, on the spot of his choice, on the reserve. He appeared to be in good health. I liked him already.
“That’s what I do,” he said, laughing. “I tell stories to my friends from the reserve at the service station and coffee shop a couple of miles back. Walk there and home again just about every day. Good exercise.”
We passed the old, fenced Native cemetery.
“My place is coming up right ahead,” he pointed, “just pull over. Don’t need to drive in.”
I could see a row or more of split and stacked firewood under the deck against the house. A large pile of wood blocks lay in front of the row of stacked wood, still not split and stacked. The large deck covering the wood didn’t have railings.
“It looks like you heat with wood and you’re already working on your supply for next winter,” I said as I slowed down and stopped in his driveway. A car and pickup truck were parked closer to the house at the end of a short, fairly steep, curved driveway.
The house had been built on quite a steep slope. The west-facing deck was accessed by a patio door on the main floor. The deck floor was the roof above the wood. The deck would have had a nice view overlooking the Fraser.
“I like heating with a wood stove and I like to get my wood ready for winter when it’s still summer. Thanks for the ride.”
He walked up his driveway in the rain.
I signalled and pulled back on the highway.
I often think of him as I drive past the green house with the deck overlooking the Fraser on my way to our cabin each summer.