South Peace Historical Society

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    • About Dorthea Horton
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  • Table of Contents

    • Part 1: First Nations of the Peace River Region
    • Part 2: The Fur Trade Era
    • Part 3: Transportation and Communication
    • Part 4: Old Timers and the Price of Land
    • Part 5: Dawson Creek: The Story of the Community
    • Part 6: Mysteries, Adventures and Indian Legends
    • Part 7: Arts, Crafts and Recreation
    • Part 8: Agriculture
    • Part 9: Church Histories
    • Part 10: Schools
    • Part 11: Health Care
    • Part 12: Industries and Enterprises
    • Part 13: Policing the Peace
    • Part 14: Pouce Coupe, Rolla, and Other South Peace Communities
    • Part 15: Chetwynd and the Fort St. John Area
    • Part 16: The Alberta Peace
    • Part 17: Natural History of the Peace River Region
    • Part 18: Interviews with Old Timers
    • Part 19: Remembering Our Veterans

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03-016: My First Trip on the Alaska Highway

By Eugene Wilkinson
 
Started out from Dawson Creek

With five and a quarter ton.

When I saw the road so smooth and wide

Says I “Why this is fun”.

 

So I settled back as I purred along

And lighted up a hill

But my air of ease soon passed away

When I struck Peace River Hill.

 

Curve after curve and mile after mile

Till I thought my brakes would burn

Then across a shaky one way bridge

And up around the hairpin turn.

 

Then up and on for ten good miles

And there to make a jog

To Fort St. John with its high crowned street

Like driving on a log.

 

Then there’s thirty miles of as fine a road

As you’ll ever wish to see,

And on through bush and curves and hills

Till I struck Mile eighty-three.

 

There up sprung a hill like the side of a barn

And I stared with bated breath

Where dismembered trucks in jumbled heaps

Bespoke a horrible death.

 

I clawed for gears with feverish haste

But the wheels began to spin,

As I slammed on the brakes and started to slide

I pictured an awful end.

 

At last with luck I got her stopped

I don’t know just how yet

And started again with utmost care

My forehead beaded with sweat.

 

 

As I reached the top I shivered and shook

My sweat turned to a chill

“If I ever make another trip

I mustn’t forget that hill.”

 

I rolled along till I reached the drop

They now called Suicide Hill

As I inched her down with squealing brakes

It gave me quite a thrill.

 

The next was the wide-famed Sikanni Hill

About seven miles down grade,

An orange sign on the last steep lap

This ominous warning gave:

 

Dangerous Hill – Use Lowest Gear –

Beware of Slides and Ice

The chills chased up and down my spine

Like a pair of frolicking mice.

 

My heart would leap with every slide

As she struck the icy spots

The exhaust was popping out behind

Like the crack of rifle shots.

 

With an ice-cold motor and red-hot brakes

I rolled up to the pump

My right leg ached and trembled

And my heart went thumpety-thump.

 

The gears they growled and the motor barked

As I steadily gave her the gun

Up the heavy drag on the other side

On toward the setting sun.

 

At the top of one hundred and forty-three

Was a scene of joy to behold

The trees below like thistles

And the mountains fringed with gold.

 

But my gaze of wonder turned to awe

As I started down the hill

For there lay the battered twisted form

Of a tanker cold and still.

 

 

Two curves and a hill two hills and a curve

Till I struck one fifty-one

At the sight of its umpteen crooks and curves

My heart sank with the sun.

 

I’d slipped her into standard low

And started up a rise

When from the top a great white light

Was shining in my eyes.

 

I’d like to tell you of it all

But space will not permit

But a ways this side of Nelson

I was scared I must admit.

 

I blinked my lights out and blinked them again

And gave him lots of space

Then I saw ‘twas only the playful moon

Staring me in the face.

 

At the Army Camp at Zero

Where they stop us for inspection

The colored boys are mighty white

In spite of their complexion.

 

“Have yuh got a pass?” “Who yur for?”

I showed the yellow slip

“Wilson Freightways” I sang out.

“Hokay boy, let ha’ rip.”

 

When I told him how this cursed road

Had got me all upset

The soldier grinned and rolled his eyes

“Boy yuh hain’t seen nothin’ yet”.

 

I swapped him a man-sized snort of rye

For a package of cigarettes

Another eight more miles to Smith’s

Was as far as I wanted to get.

 

I slept awhile and dumped my load

Made Dawson Creek that night

And swore I’d never pass St. John

Without a hell of a fight.

 

 

So I pestered Slim with my tale of woe

And thought his heart was melting

Till he smiled and said, “here’s load of fruit –

“For Two-Ten above Nelson”.

 

« 03-015: The Alaska Military Highway

03-017: Want to go up the Highway with me? »

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