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Old Cabins and Me

March 11, 2015

1) When I was a teen, my parents took my sister and I to a ghost town. Because I was a teen confronted with concepts like “outside” and “family activity” and “it’ll be good for you”, I complained. I grumped through the car ride, I grumped while walking down the steep, weed-ridden road, and I grumped all the way up to the first tumbled-down structure. It got more interesting after that because someone had insulated the cabin with newspaper you could still read and they’d left cans and bed frames and things inside, and oh yeah, it was made out of logs so you could see how the whole thing was constructed. But, because I was sixteen, I continued to grump so my parents wouldn’t know they’d be right to take me there.

(Mom, Dad, I know you’re reading this. I’m sorry.)

The ghost town was Quesnel Forks, once a thriving townsite during the gold rush. People used to pan the Quesnel River which, unsurprisingly, runs right by the town. The second time I went there, several years later because my parents wanted to show my uncle, I remember the river being beautiful—clear water over white stone, greens and golds in the surrounding forest, blue skies.

2) I have vague memories of another cabin, so old it was only really the bottom two or three squares of logs, sitting near a hiking path or a ski trail. Can’t tell you if that’s real, or a reconstructed memory, and definitely can’t tell you where.

3) Down the road from where I grew up was an outdoor museum, where people brought historic local buildings to be preserved and showed off in one spot. They started with a roadhouse and a barn, but by the time I hit my teens, they’d added a general store, a icehouse, a blacksmith, a one-room school, a bunkhouse, and a cabin. I used to bike over there in summer because I was nerdy, the store sold candy, and it was a simpler time. After the first couple visits, though, I kind of lost interest, because I’d seen everything and didn’t have the historical context to really understand what I was seeing.

4) Several years ago, I was visiting my parents when my dad said, “Let’s do something. How about an old ranch with a waterfall?” The waterfall was gorgeous, and worth the steep climb to the top. The walk there was pretty neat too, along a red and tan cliff full of faces. The ranch wasn’t much to see—it’s a provincial park now and not operational—but a couple of the old bunk houses were still standing, even if there were DANGER: KEEP OUT signs posted at the entrances. They’re the only cabins I’ve mentioned that I actually have photos one. One of these days I’ll get photos of some of the others.

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One Comment leave one →
  1. Harold Rhenisch permalink
    March 11, 2015 10:39 pm

    Nice pics! Too bad you didn’t see the old Keremeos townsite. Hey, I have some thoughts about the Spanish Mound.

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