Northwest Miramichi River, Exmoor, Northumberland County
New Brunswick, Canada

Way Back When

In the 1940’s, my father assisted as a cook during a log drive
down the north west branch of the Miramichi River.  I say
“assisted”, as I am skeptical his cooking abilities were solely
responsible for the lives of hardy woodsmen who spent
much of their day hopping precariously among logs as they
 floated down stream.

On this particular day, with beans and stew at hand and
travelling in advance of the logs and their human cargo,
he came upon an unusually long, straight stretch of river
water.  It was highlighted by steep embankment on the
far side, with spruce, pine and birch trees towering high
overhead.  On the near side, a rolling hill gave way to a
clearing where a number of small logged buildings known
as Craig’s Camps sat perched above the river.

As legend has it, my father was so taken by the wonder
of the site he stated he would return and spend future
summers there.  Fortunately, for my family, friends, and
 a zillion or so relatives, life gave him his wish.

The property caretaker, Bill Craig, was a well-known sportsman
 and businessman from town who established the camps for
 hunting and salmon fishing expeditions.  In subsequent years,
 my father became well acquainted with Mr. Craig.  Following
 my father’s marriage to my mother in the mid-1950’s, he
 began renting out a camp for a couple of weeks each summer
 at Craig’s.  By the time I arrived in 1960, summer vacations at
 Craig’s Camps were an anticipated event for my family.

Early Recollections

Heading off to camp for summer vacation was always exciting.
  We would all settle into my father’s station wagon, some of
 us sharing the bumper seat in the back compartment
 and off we would go.

Our typical route was via Chaplin Island Road.  We would
 drive up way back the road past Masie Ryans and
 beyond the Mill Stream where we would often go trout
 fishing with a glass jar filled with worms and fresh soil
 from Arthur Hartery’s garden.  We would drive up further
 on, past the schoolhouse where mother would state she
 attended class and up to the forest ranger tower.  The
tower’s long stairwell was brought to life by “The Forest
 Rangers” on CBC TV with Joe Two Rivers, Chuck
 and a “A” for Apple and “B” for Bob.

We would then sweep down into the valley beyond the
 tower and out to the Hilltop Road.  After delivering a gigantic
 view of the river’s northwest arm, the Hilltop would deposit us
 into upper Sevolge, just beyond the old church where Kingston
 heritage rested in peace.

The rest of the drive was easy by then.

As we neared our destination, Dad would sometimes pull
 into the fish counting station where we would lay down and
 look into big wooden bins and see the mighty Atlantic salmon,
 live and before your nose, swimming in the river’s current.

Our other great adventure was a bit further down the highway
 where the wagon would pull off and drive down to the water’s
 edge at Swinging Bridge, where my brothers and I sometimes
 bounced hard on the narrow wooden walkway to encourage
 shrieks from our older sister.

Upon arrival at Craig’s Camps, we use to take the Old Indian
 Road down to the river, on the far side of Astles where Leslie
 and his brother Wiet lived.

The wagon would slowly make its way to the river, pausing a
 few times to cushion the bumps from water filled potholes
 by the swamp.  We would then swing down in front of the
 building they called the Kitchen.  It was by far the largest
of Craig’s camps.  The Kitchen along with its nearby neighbour,
 a tiny log schoolhouse being partially overtaken by the
 approaching forest, both sat across a gravel roadway
 from the other camps that were perched on the rolling hill
 overlooking the river.

There were more camps back then.  The Indian line had
 yet to be revised and swallow up half the place.

Each year, we would often have a different building to
 reside in.  Dad would typically enter our camp of the
 day first to do a quick walk through to check for visible
 signs of any bats or resident wood snakes.  Dad would
 sometimes find a snake in a front porch woodpile and
 one year, we found a large one curled up the middle
 of the master bed.

When you stepped inside a camp, an old wooden
 spring door would slam shut behind you and a strong
 musty odour greeted your senses.  The air smelled of
 old woolen blankets and stacks of Life and Beautiful
 British Columbia magazines, sprinkled with a touch
 of wood that was slowly rotting somewhere.  It
 was one those smells which reminded you that
 for days and days, summer was yours to be had.

For us kids, our immediate priority was to get into
 our bathing suits, which we always managed to do
 in lightening speed.  With towels in hand, we would run
 down the hill through the tall blade grass in our bare feet,
 which felt refreshingly cool on the clay path beneath
 us as we went.

Once at the shore, getting into the river was tricky!  You
 had to quickly get through the soft clay and out onto
 the rocky bottom.  Leaches lurked at the shoreline and
 you always had to be sure you got through the sand
 quickly or god forbid, one would stick themselves on you
 and suck your blood to potentially life threateningly levels
 - or so we sometimes thought.  When a leach did
 occasionally show its ugly self, a runner was dispatched
 up to the camp for a salt shaker.  A few shakes and
 usually the small monster could be peeled off.

During an extended period of hot weather, the river
 water was often warm, however most of the time; it was
 cool if not at times, outright cold.  It always seemed to take
 forever to wade out over the rocks before plunging in,
gasping for air as you went.

We were always diving for special rocks and building
 rock piles.  The sound of someone knocking rocks together
 under the water would travel from far beyond the field of
 view your eyes would offer.

The river was full of life.  Catching minnows was a
 common past time and you would proudly show them
 off to your peers in a small bent up pot with a big handle
 that was retrieved from the bowels of a camp cupboard.
  It was somewhat of an art form to catch a pot full of
 minnows as you had to scoop the water as fast as
you could.

In the deeper water where the pebbles were easier
 to walk on, the only known fear to humankind was the
 lamprey eel.  Its very name brought chills to us tiny
 mortal souls.  It was considered the blood-sucking monster
 of the rivers deepest channels and its much-discussed
 methods of attack were of folklore proportions.  The beast
 had no eyes, would wrap itself around you like a snake,
 puncture you skin with a throat full of sharp teeth and
 suck-your-blood.  The only recorded attack, which served
 as a vivid reminder to be forever watchful, was when my
 first cousin Keith had one try to wrap itself around a limb
 while he was swimming out to the Big Rock.  He fortunately
 lived to talk about the experience, as he was able to
 fling it off before the lamprey was able to get a good hold.

In later years, I remember hooking a lamprey eel by accident
while fly fishing at Craig’s Pool.  As I was reeling it in,
I noticed lots of kids swimming down in front of the camp.
 I released lots of line, ran down along the bank to our
camp shore, and soon had my catch swimming about
 my fellow cousins.  With one hard pull of the rod, the
lamprey came flying out of the water amongst them as
I roared from the shore - “Eeeeeeeeeel!!!”.  I recall
plenty of screams, widespread panic, and kids choking
on river water.

Each summer we would have a raft that was anchored
 by big cement bricks we would find under the water while
 canoeing.  They were typically the remnants of a poacher’s
 gill net that was cut away by wardens during some middle
 of the night journey down the river.  A tell tale sign of a
submerged brick was to find a long yellow rope swaying
 in the current as you searched for a glimpse of a salmon
 while floating over Craig’s Pool in the canoe.

Inevitably, our raft would most often disappear after a
large period of rain, swept down the river by the high current.
  The current was always respected.  One time up river
at the Old Ellison Place above the Wayerton Bridge, my
fully dressed father had to run out and retrieve Willy from
 the river after the current had decided to invite my
younger brother along on its journey downstream.

At Craig’s, when the wind came up, the Northwest’s smooth
 surface would transform into a sea of rolling waves that
broke quickly.  Kevin was caught in one once on the river’s
 far side just beyond the Big Rock.  His tiny body was dwarfed
in one of the heavy big cedar canoes and he paddled furiously
against the waves, going nowhere.  When you headed back
to shore on a windy day, you didn’t mind landing at shore
as far down as Morris’s Camp as long as you made it
back to the shallow side.

Canoeing was a most popular of past times for us kids.
  Although the cedars were standard fare early on, we later
 got a Styrofoam Radisson canoe which came from Fredericton.

Our Radisson had a square butt end which the Indians loved
 as you could set your gill net’s serving tray on it before
running a forty footer with a four inch mesh through Craig’s
Pool in the wee moonlit hours of the morning.

I use to like the Radisson for that reason as well.

We knew the canoe was popular with poachers because
we were forever finding it parked elsewhere when we woke
 up in the morning often with fish scales on the floor.

Occasionally, the odd canoe would slip away down river
only to have us retrieve it a few miles away.

It was always fun to canoe up towards the island and look
 for schools of large chubbs swimming about.  Occasionally
 visiting relatives would mistake them for salmon and later
 on, they often had me charging up the shoreline with my
waders on and fly rod in tow convinced that the mother
load of salmon schools was passing by.

My favourite canoe trip was always up to the island and then
 floating down river hugging the shoreline as you went.  You
would discover dead fish in the smelly water grass along the
bank and even the odd turtle as you drifted down past the Big Slide. 
We even kept a turtle as a pet occasionally.

On adventurous days, we would canoe further up the river. 
Having spawned, dead lamprey eels were always on public
display in the low, choppy, murky water just above the island. 
Despite the fact there were only dead carcasses strewn
about, we always took the liberty of chopping them up
further with our paddles.

Often, we would make it up to the second island, which
was a hard paddle in the current.  The island was located
across from Percy Smith’s camp and ran along the Highbridge Pool,
which many felt was the nicest salmon pool on the river. 
The river turned just above the pool, with loud, low, fast
moving water flowing into a deep channel.

Percy Smith always hated strangers fly-fishing at Highbridge. 
Early some mornings, well before the sun would begin
peeking through the surrounding forest, he would discover
my presence and walk down to the river to yell across at me
above the roar of rushing water.  I’d often just ignore him and
continue throwing my fly line across the pool, my yellowed
butted butterfly sometimes landing within inches of Percy’s
rubber boots on the far shore.

We did not often canoe above Highbridge Pool.  The
water was to low for an extended stretch of the river.

When you canoed down-stream, you could really fly
with the current.  We sometimes would go well down
past Frank Morris’s camp, through the roaring Jack
Rapids and over Joe Wall’s Pool at the elbow.  You had to
be careful if you pulled the boat up at Wall’s as loose cows
would be strolling about and we were always leery of them. 
The paddle back up the river to our camp was
occasionally insurmountable.  We would sometimes
carry the canoe back along the bank of the river until
calmer waters were restored.

In our teens, the ultimate canoe ride was to go all
the way out to Newcastle.  On my maiden voyage, a friend
and I got lost among the islands near the Johnson Bridge. 
After what seemed like a full day of paddling, I phoned
and had Dad come rescue us in the wagon, just a few
miles down the road from our camp.

Nighttime

The most exciting nighttime excursion was to go see the bears. 
Big black bears frequented the area dump that lay up
beyond the old Johnston Bridge.

Often dressed only in pajamas, we would all squeeze
into someone’s car and off we’d go.  The key was to sneak into
the dump quietly, parked in the right location, shut off the car’s
lights and sit quietly.  Sitting quietly was the tough part as we
always had a hard time muffling our laughter as we waited for
black bears to appear.  Every few minutes our adult driver
would suddenly turn on the exterior lights and often times,
there before us sat large black bears, eating among the
refuse.  To encourage screams from within, just for a
moment, someone always managed to open a car door.

The camp was an exciting place at night.  We often had
a campfire going, fuelled by a never-ending supply of plastic
 milk cartons from the dairy.  Building “towering infernos”
with cartons was quite common.

We were mesmerized at night by fireflies, which had the
ability to glow in the dark.  We use to fill a bottle with them and
then secretly let them escape in our bedrooms so that we would
be treated to a natural “light show”.  The practice never last long
however as we’d wake up with a room full of large ugly bugs.

Out on the deck at night, the sound of the brook gurgling from
across the way at the Big Rock was complimented by the echo
of an old dog barking from down below.  Bats were usually
flying about and we were forever protecting our precious hair
from their hungry mouths.

The most exciting nighttime entertainment was to bring a
sleeping bag out on the deck and listening to the Indians
poaching.  The odd clank of an oar hitting a boat would piece
the black stillness.
 

The Wardens

During daylight hours, we too were watchful of wardens as
 fishing with a spinner and worm was illegal.  Uncle Allan
devised the password “MILK” as a warning signal.  At times it
seemed we were forever yelling “MILK” out on the river. 
“TIME TO COME BACK AND GET YOUR GLASS OF MIIIIILLLLLLKKKK!!!”

You never could be sure what the Indians or the wardens
 were up to.  At the time most of the wardens were former poachers
 themselves who drank a lot and who were hired for their
expertise of negotiating the river in the dark.

Hubert was an Indian who lived nearby and a notorious poacher. 
We came to know Hubert as a result of my father assisting
him and some companions when they came knocking in need
of motor oil one evening.  The following morning, a fresh salmon
was left at our door and a long-term relationship was initiated.

Hubert knew many of the warden’s tricks.  He would tell us the
wardens would occasionally send a bright conspicuous canoe
down the river about midnight with two uniformed officers chatting
 it up and making lots of noise.  Then when some poachers
thought they could then have their way with the river,
along would come a second canoe, only this time
a dark cedar floating along close to the far shoreline,
propelled by the silent current.

Hubert would sometimes walk over to our deck at night
and allow us to view with wardens floating by with his night
 vision, infrared binoculars.

One night in my teens, Hubert asked if I would assist him
 in paddling the canoe while he set a 40 foot 4 inch mesh
 net across Craig’s Pool.  It was scary but fun.  The fear
was that a dark cedar could quietly drift up within feet of you
 and our boat would suddenly be besieged with a
 brilliant spotlight as the sound of sudden, violent
swishes of water filled the air as the wardens
swooped in to catch their human prey.

Hubert always said there was nothing to worry about.
  The shoreline was always close by and once on shore,
all you simply had to do was crawl on your hands
and knees into the woods.  Apparently, at night
people are almost impossible to catch that way
however I was afraid to ask exactly what a
person did after getting to where ever it was
they were going.

Up The Hill

We use to spend lots of time up exploring up
around the swamp. 
It was a great place to find frogs amidst the bull rushes.
We would sometimes soak a bull rush in a flammable
 fluid and light it ablaze.  The swamp was also a
 popular place to spot a moose or deer while driving
down over the hill at evening time.

Further up across the highway were the gravel pits
where we would occasionally go to pick blue berries.
 I was always leery of the place because a big black
bear was spotted back there.

The pits were great fun to climb and jump from. 
You would leap through the air and down into
mounds of loose gravel causing a small avalanche
to slide down the embankment with you.

The Swamp

Occasionally a group of us would head out and trek down
 to Shirley McKibbon’s store.  It was about a mile or so
down the main highway beyond the bridge at Wild Cat Brook. 
As was the case at Shirleys, I always thought it would
be heaven on earth to have a large store full of goodies
just out the door from your living room.

We would all go digging through her place looking for
a favourite treat, plunk ourselves on her front porch
consuming our purchases and then begin what
seemed like the long trip back home.

Aside from the Astles and maybe the Sweeney’s, we didn’t
 know many of the locals however they all seemed friendly
enough for when we walked along the highway, no
matter how fast cars drove by, the drivers always
managed a big wave.

Relatives

We always had a good supply of visiting relatives at
Craig’s Camps.  It was wonderful for us kids, as just
when you had to say good-bye to your best summer
 friends another contingent would show up.  They
would come from all over the county, the province,
the country, and sometimes the world.  They arrived in
cars, trucks, motor homes, boats, and planes – all modes
 of transportation.  In our teens it was like having,
great new neighbours move in every couple
of weeks and we loved it.  Our visitors would
profess wonder at the splendor and beauty of Craig’s
 Camps as well as puzzlement at how one was able to
 poke a small plastic straw into a mini-sip bag
without getting drenched with juice.

Craig’s Camps are quieter today.  There are fewer kids
 swimming out to the Big Rock or jumping from the
 latest river raft.  Like the brook at the Big Rock
 that continues to trickle water down over the
 soft clay along the bank, life moves forward,
 in its wake offering a treasure of distant
memories of a very special place…

The End :)