WILSON
By F. Bruce Ryans
(53-55)
More than fifty years ago,
a woodsman, musician and carpenter named Bill Wilson (50-54?) joined the
Camp Kennabi staff. J.C. Moore (47-70), the camp warden, had landed a super
handyman in “Wilson”. I first saw him when I was a camper in the 1940’s
but would not formally meet him until I had been hired on staff in the
early fifties.
Al Moore (47-54) always
referred to him as “Wilson” and even addressed him as such. All others
called him Bill. He was a quiet, middle aged man of average height and
weight, who happened to be tough. While we all wore a uniform of yellow
staff shirts and khaki shorts, Bill had his own style. Usually he wore
a fedora, long sleeved shirt, tie, trousers with both braces and a belt
and wool socks with ankle boots.
When bugs became a problem,
he turned up his collar, tightened his tie, pulled down his sleeves, did
them up, pulled socks over pant cuffs and went back to work. His work clothes
were various dark shades, and bugs bothered him less than anyone else.
What about scientific research? I’ve long since followed Bill’s lead. For
me it works.
Bill carried a small penknife
in his pocket. He believed in the theory that the larger the knife, the
less that man probably knew.
Bill Wilson and Pal
 Most nights, Bill headed
home for supper and returned the next morning. He took care of Pal, his
horse, and Dot, his wife, took care of Bill. Pal was really Dot’s horse,
but Al always called him Wilson’s horse. I do believe that Dot, Pal and
the dog were his entire family.
Bill’s house was on the south
side of the highway just opposite the road to East Bay and Camp Kennabi.
One day, Dot and Bill had planned to go into town to see a movie at the
Molou Theatre. Bill had wanted to stable Pal at Kennaway for a few weeks.
For some reason, Bill decided to do me a favour. He allowed me to ride
Pal into camp from his house. Dot and Bill had a great night. Pal and I
did not.
Pal and I began the ride
to camp. Pal was old and docile but in fine shape. We rode mostly, but
I did walk him up the big hills. We both needed the rest.
As we neared the mill site
that sunny afternoon, Pal’s nose began to twitch. He stopped dead. A black
bear rolled across the road from right to left. He had his own route to
the gorge and Pike’s Peak. We recovered, or so I thought. That horse was
glued to the spot. I tried everything, even leading him. I pictured us
stranded ‘til morning. For some reason he stepped back, I turned him, circled
him a few times and soon we were on our way. We crossed the bear’s scuff
marks and rode on into camp.
I put the saddle and blanket
in the outer office of Kennabi Lodge. I told my story to the staff members
and then rubbed the horse down and watered him. I told my story to others
and then tied him to a tree. I thought about telling my story to Wilson
in the morning and then fell into bed.
Wilson had moved the horse
down the Kennaway Road before I got up. I finally caught up with him later
that day, anxious to relate the epic. He heard me out, smiled a rare smile
and mumbled something about horses not being fond of bears. That was that.
I never volunteered to ride Pal again. In fact, I have not ridden since.
From the Swamp to Heaven
 My
first year on staff, seven of us slept in Mill Valley, the largest of the
staff cabins at that time. The sign over the door said
Mill Valley Manor,
but the inhabitants called it the swamp.
It was located in a low area
across from the Hospital. (The original Hospital is now called
Bayview Lodge.
Mill Valley in the 1953 picture is located about where the old Snack Shack
was for many years - Ed) During rainy periods we “walked the plank" across the
swamp to the cabin. Two slept to the left and three to the right of the
door. The last two had the “chicken coop” attached to the back. This rather
small structure was Wilson’s concert hall. On a few occasions, Al and Ross
Mitchell (48-54) were able to coax Bill to bring his Spanish guitar and
stay for the evening. Perhaps a dozen of us crowded into the “Swamp” to
hear Wilson play. He handled that acoustic instrument very well indeed.
We sang on occasion, but mostly listened. Al made most of the requests
and Wilson obliged.
Bill may have played before
the fire in Kennabi Lodge and up in
Pow Wow, but “Swamp” concerts remain
the most vivid in my mind. One place I would have liked to have heard him
play was the new staff cabin, but that was not meant to be.
Sunken white pine logs were
dragged from the lake bottom, carried to Art Parrish’s mill, cut into lumber
and returned for construction of that palace on the hill. Some of us worked
our day at the mill and drove a few nails. Wilson was much more a part
of the story. I remember the June that it was finished. J.C. Moore told
me that as senior staff, I could have my pick of rooms. I climbed those
steps, turned right inside the door and claimed my room. Wow! From “Swamp”
to “Heaven”. I know, however, that in carpenter’s pencil on a white pine
board in that building, it says “Wilson’s Work”, and it will be as hard
to locate as “Camp Seven”. Bill would never have wanted his name over a
door.
Wilson’s change of plan
Bill could remove most hazardous
trees alone. One morning, three of us headed out in the truck to a spot
not far past the Kennabi Creek culvert. On the left was a large yellow
birch. It was dead, leaning and up a bank. Huge branches cast shadows on
the road. Bill’s original plan involved a two man crosscut saw and a felling
axe. We cut, then rested while he chopped. Soon it was “go for the wedges,
the oil, etc. Al sat. I moved.
A late model Pontiac came
in with two girls, Adele and Shirley, that Al had invited to see the camp.
They worked for Annie Jones at Drag Lake Lodge. Al and Wilson exchanged
glances. Only Al smiled. Wilson switched to a new plan. Now it was “go
for the hand auger, the fuse and the pail of forcite”.
This time Al moved fast.
I retrieved the long handled shovel and a box of dynamite caps from the
cab of the truck. We blocked the road and retrieved the materials in minutes.
Bill started the auger into the tree trunk. Taking turns, we had the “T”
auger spinning. A one and a half inch diameter hole soon reached the centre
of that hollow birch. Bill pushed forcite sticks into the hole and packed
them in using the handle of the shovel. A cap crimped on a measured length
of fuse was buried in the last stick of putty-like dynamite. He eased that
one in leaving some fuse hanging. Caps explode very easily. Not so the
forcite. We gathered gear and moved out. Wilson lit the fuse, put the box
of caps in the pail and followed us up and around a bend in the road.
It blew with a big bang,
followed by the sound of snapping and one tremendous thump. A hail of debris
and lesser thumps followed. Finally the patter of wood chips, bark and
fine gravel arrived and then silence. We returned to look. The smell was
memorable. The scene…….
The top, complete with branches
had cleared the road and broken off. Chains and the truck pulled the now
shortened trunk around. We cleaned up in a hurry and headed back to camp.
Thanks to Wilson’s change of plan, there was time for the girls to get
a tour of the lake. Shirley had to return her mother’s car, but not before
Al had arranged a date with Adele.
Bill had left us with the
chore of truck clean-up. Al made a discovery. Caps and dynamite were in
the same pail! I had stood in the back with that potent team as we had
bounced home!
Al Moore dated and finally
married Mary Adele Carter Lee. Shirley Mae Fink came on staff as food supervisor
at camp for a couple of years (54-55). I dated Shirley and we will
have been married forty-four years this June.
We four owe a lot to Wilson.
What if he had stuck to the original plan?
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