Dad got to the shower first, and came out laughing that he had used a sachet of lotion in his hair by accident, thinking it was shampoo (the sachets are identical in appearance). After I had carefully not made the same mistake we went for breakfast where we found a large family group of Swiss and a father and son from Alabama, although we had the most interesting chat with the waitress who was from the Phillipines. Dad got his usual Sunday pancakes and I joined him, they being an irregular feature in our house due to Martin's description of pancakes reminding him of carpet underlay and me not wanting to make a batch just for myself.
About 5km west of Nimpo Lake there is a very small and insignificant piece of paper tacked to a board inside a fence that is impossible to cross and so the whole thing is unreadable but which commemorates a sad epoch in BC's history, the Chilcotin War. It wasn't really a war in the traditional sense of the word. In 1864, a team of white surveyors were sent by Alfred Waddington (he of the largest mountain in BC fame) to find a faster route to the gold fields from Bute Inlet. The local Chilcotin, who had been supportive in the beginning, decided that the surveyors were responsible for speading small pox from blankets they had received (they weren't) and so massacred the road workers. The murderers were later found and either died in a gunfight or hung, and the roadwork as terminated.

But the real heroes of the road were those residents of Bella Coola almost a hundred years later, who tired of being told it was impossible to join their town to the road that came in from Williams Lake but which ended at Heckman pass. The provincial government said it couldn't be done, that it was too expensive, that it was too dangerous, etc. etc. and finally the locals decided to take it upon themselves and just build the thing. A couple of bulldozers worked, one going east and the other going west, and several boxes of dynamite assisted both, until the road was finally completely with a handshake across the dozers' cabs in 1953.
And it's quite the road.
Starting at Heckman Pass (1524 metres), where the temperature was 3 degrees and it starting to snow (yes, that's right, snow), we began our steep and winding descent along a single lane track with no guardrails that at some points extends at an 18% grade . The fog was so thick we couldn't see the scenery very well, but that might have been a good thing as there is a wall of rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other. Downhill drivers have to yield to uphill drivers which freaked me out at the prospect as I was driving it and I could not imagine having to back up on one of the many hairy hairpin turns on this narrow, precipitous gravel shelf threading along the cliff face. Thankfully we didn't see too many divers and I went down so slowly that the few we did meet were seen in advance so that I could shimmy over to allow them to pass. Everyone waved to each other in that universal sign of shared highway terror.
We eventually came out of it feeling extremely proud and relieved. Dad was the perfect passenger, keeping calm and quiet and not pressing on his imaginary brake too much. We celebrated with a round of the jelly bean travel game (first one to 5 wins, with the loser allowed to get 4 beans in total - "after all," said Dad, "the winner has to win something besides a moral victory". Everything is always a contest.)
To be fair, we had read about this road (rather cruelly passed off as just "the Hill" in local parlance) and were prepared for it to be even worse. Going slow was the key, and no doubt it will be easier going up tomorrow, except that then you are driving on the outside next to the sheer drop. Dad is already worrying about that.
Sorry there are no photos of the actual road here (What, are you crazy? Did you really think I would take photos while driving THAT?). If I am indeed a passenger tomorrow and Dad lives up to billing as the safe driver he has always been then there maybe some added to tomorrow's journey.
I needed to unclench my hands from the steering wheel so we stopped off for a cup of coffee at the Tweedsmuir Park Lodge, which turned out to be a fantastic place, with pristine log cabins dotted around a large lawn straddling a creek. There was one cabin dedicated to a large hottub and a room where you could get a massage! Inside the lodge, the great room had a huge log fire going, enormous leather chairs next to a full sized and full wine cabinet, and big tables looking out to a swarm of hummingbirds zooming into a feeder that bounced around with so many tiny feathery bodies hitting it at speed. Rustic my eye! Apparently the draw is watching grizzly bears, who patronize the lawn in August and September, and going hiking (summer) and heli-skiing (winter). We both decided that it was the only part of the trip so far that his wife and my husband would actually like.
Before long we were in Hagensborg and then Bella Coola. Hagensborg was settled in the late 19th century by Norwegians escaping economic hardship and seeking religious freedom. Practically every house was neat as a pin, with manicured grass and well tended gardens. The reserve land in Bella Coola on the other hand was full of houses patched and peeling, rusted ex-vehicles covered with years of grass and moss, curtainless windows looking out on bits of old upholstered furniture quietly rotting outside in the rain. Those two neighbourhoods in close proximity more than any other image highlights the cultural rift there has always been between the aboriginal and the western populations, a rift that yawns in almost every part of the country that has a native populace. Until that can be solved there will never be advancement and it makes us so sad to think that unless something truly innovative can be designed, nothing will change in our lifetimes, and maybe never. It's like cutural oil and water with two sides who have an entirely different value system. You throw in some misunderstanding and racism (both sides are guilty of these) and mix with alcohol and despair and its a potent downward spiral.
Bella Coola surprised and disappointed in another way though. We had expected a bustling town and it was very small and very quiet. The ferry terminal was just a wharf, and only a few fish boats hinted at an industry long in decline, with a distant cannery charmingly turned into a B&B.

The town's real beauty is in its geography. It is located at the end of a long inlet, with forest clad mountins and snow clad rock faces plunging on either side, waterfalls etching the fault lines. Due to a marshy tidal basin, the town is located in from the shore, and it has very little more than the bare minimum of a grocery store, hardware store, gas station, credit union, rcmp office, and a couple of motels and cafes.

A notable bonus was Kopas store, one of those superlative general stores that sell everything - running shoes, giftwrap, fishing lures, fashion handbags, baseball gloves, wool socks, binoculars, bug spray, cowboy hats, souvenir tee-shirts, camera film (yes, film, remember that?), tennis racquets and CDs - and that's in the first aisle. The proprietess is the perfect person for a town like this - sharp, personable, knowledgable, compassionate and appreciative - oh, and energetic with a good sense of humour.
Another plus was the local museum, a tiny place housed in two adjoined log cabins, one being the original schoolhouse. A goodly selection of items that connected native history, Norwegian settlements and local industries was crammed in.

On our way back to Hagensborg (where we are spending the night in a huge log lodge) we took a short detour to check out the local rodeo, which is on this weekend. A stampede and a rodeo in the same week! A grassy field was ringed with tents and camper vans and pickup trucks, with small goups of people sitting around campfires. Everyone was aboriginal (the local band here is Nuxalk (pronouced Noohalk)) and wore a cowboy hat regardless of age and sex. Hordes of children ran freely among packs of mixed breed dogs. The whole thing had an air of relaxed unscheduled enjoyment.