History | Go Sayward

Welcoming Party

By Rene Harding

We hadn’t been on the farm at Salmon River long when the scattered residents called a welcoming party for the new settlers, namely Colletts, and ourselves, the J. B. Howes family, and also for a bachelor not long returned from active service overseas. Colletts had been in the valley since December, 1919, four months before us. They were included in the official welcome even though they had attended a couple of once-a-month dances held in the schoolhouse.

We were informed that ladies brought refreshments and cups—putting in two extra for bachelors—and the affair was to be held on Saturday evening. We looked forward to meeting valley residents; up until now we hadn’t become acquainted with many.

Fridays were bath nights. Out came the wash boiler, the stove was stuffed with wood and towels draped over kitchen chairs, and a galvanized tub placed before the stove. We took turns in washing and there was the chore of packing water in pails. It was not very convenient, but it is amazing. Nothing seemed inconvenient but we were learning to cope.

On the Saturday evening of the party we packed our bags with the required articles, plus slippers, and waited for the Collett family to call for us. When they arrived Mother and I were advised to pin our skirts up above our gum boots as it would be a wet walk.

Off we started, carrying lanterns and bugs; a bug being a tin can with a hole punched on one side and fitted with a candle. A wire handle was added. Lard pails made excellent bugs as they had handles which could be attached. These home-made lanterns gave quite a good light.

We avoided the muddy and pot-holed road by following a forest trail running between it and the river. A footing spanned Springer Creek. Most of the upper settlers preferred to walk this trail instead of using the road.

The little one-room schoolhouse sat in a clearing where Woodlands Lodge now stands.

We were welcomed in and Mother and I were shown the women’s dressing area, a space behind a large pot-bellied heater where a big preserving kettle full of water was in preparation for coffee making. A bucket and dipper stood on a bench by the door in case one should require a drink before refreshment time.

Desks had been pushed against the walls to make a space for dancing and a couple of coal oil lamps cast their glow upon the happy faces of men, women and children, glad to get together for a social evening and to exchange news and gossip.

A small organ stood in one corner next to the teacher’s desk and Mother, who was musical, seemed interested in it but was told it didn’t work as mice had chewed the insides.

Music for the dance was provided by the Duncan boys with their Amberola gramophone. They packed it to and from the dances. It was a heavy iron-based model dated in the late 1800s and had a large flared horn supported by a metal rod.

Alternate music was supplied by Frank Schmidt with his fiddle. Frank was an amiable Dutchman nicknamed Flannel-Foot because of his shuffling walk.

Then there was Hank McDonald with his concertina. We were duly warned about a step-up in the floor level, caused when the building had been enlarged.

I watched, fascinated, as people kicked up their heels in square dances, waltz lemonades and brownies. Other dances were called but the first-mentioned were best on account of the floor. The children amused themselves on the sidelines.

Halfway through the evening the MC called on Louis Proulx to entertain with a step-dance. Louis, a swarthy French-Canadian, bounced onto the floor and when Frank struck up a jig on his fiddle, Louis’ feet fairly flew. Charlie Gentry, a trapper, was next on the floor. Charlie was slim and loose-jointed and his dancing ran to Buck-and-Wing. They received hearty applause.

An impromptu barbershop quartet came next with Gordie Lawson, Harold Lewis and Ernie Williams along with another man, all facing in, arms over shoulders as they warbled Listen to the Mocking Bird, The Old Oaken Bucket, and other songs I came to know through their subsequent performances. The younger men were noticeably too shy to join in.

We danced with both young and old, there being no segregation on account of age in those days.

There was Two-step John Wilson, so named because he knew no other dance. John’s leading arm would pump-handle all out of time with the music, which was rather awkward to get used to. John wore a navy blue suit with peg-topped pants and yellow pugnosed boots, antiquated even in those days.

I was intrigued by the bachelor just returned from overseas, Alex LeClair by name, another French-Canadian. He sat all night, no coat over a grey Stanfield undershirt and kept his hat on. He hardly uttered a word, which may have been just as well as I learned later his vocabulary would “curl the hair of a mule skinner.”

Now that people had met us they began calling in on their way up or down the valley, which was nice, especially for Mother. She appreciated the easy friendliness and began to adjust to this new way of living.

One Sunday word came that Rev. J. Antle of the Columbia Coast Mission would be holding a service in the schoolhouse. Mother and I decided to go along, but Dad and Ivan were too busy.

As we passed through Hughie Jamieson’s place we were joined by the school teacher, Miss Christie Smith, who boarded with them. Miss Smith was tall, very pleasant and well suited to country life. Everyone liked her, especially Frank Schmidt.

It had been raining, so Miss Smith took along a big black umbrella. As we came into the clearing near the schoolhouse Jamieson’s brindle steers were there. They were big fellows, and wild to boot. When we appeared they came charging full speed at us. There wasn’t a fence nor a stump to get behind. Mother and I were petrified, but Miss Smith, calm and collected, said: “Don’t run. Never run.”

She quickly aimed her umbrella at them, opening and closing it several times. That did the trick. The steers circled backward to the schoolhouse, tails up and hooves pounding.

Not many people came to the service but Rev. Antle preached a good sermon and all the while those wretched steers galloped around and around the building. Finally they took off down the valley.

Mother liked to sing, even without accompaniment as in this instance. She had a pretty voice. Rev. Antle chose the hymn Unto the Hills Around Do I Lift Up My Longing Eyes. As he announced its title he gazed thoughtfully out of the window at the Prince of Wales range of mountains, then remarked that it was his favorite hymn. I never hear that music without recalling Rev. Antle and our first church service at Salmon River.

The work of the Columbia Coast Mission had been somewhat curtailed during the First World War. Now Rev. Antle, the founder of that wonderful organization, planned to give services again to isolated communities along the inland waters off northern Vancouver Island.

The Columbia Coast Mission ran a hospital at Alert Bay and one at Rock Bay. What a blessing they were to settlers and loggers who otherwise had to go down to Vancouver for medical attention—or do without.

Later on Rev. Antle arranged for a doctor on board the MV Columbia, and when called on in an emergency, no matter how far away they might have been they always came. Those doctors and the crew will long be gratefully remembered.

Kelsey Bay Beach Logging Camp Circa 1937

Nestled along the rugged shoreline of Johnstone Strait, the historic Kelsey Bay Beach Logging Camp once served as one of the busiest industrial hubs in the Sayward Valley during Vancouver Island’s great logging era.

The photograph above, believed to date to approximately 1937, captures Kelsey Bay during a time when coastal logging operations dominated the economy of northern Vancouver Island. Before highways connected the region to the rest of the island, communities like Kelsey Bay existed primarily because of the forest industry.

At its peak, Kelsey Bay was much more than a small waterfront settlement. It was a thriving company town built around logging, rail transport, booming grounds, and marine shipping operations. Timber harvested deep within the Sayward Valley was transported by logging railway from inland camps to the waterfront at Kelsey Bay, where logs were sorted, stored, and loaded for shipment to coastal mills and export markets.

The image reveals several defining features of the early beach logging camp. Floating log booms crowd the sheltered water in the foreground while a wooden wharf and industrial structures extend into the bay. Small bunkhouses and work buildings line the shoreline beneath the steep forested mountains that tower behind the settlement.

Kelsey Bay’s location made it ideal for coastal logging operations. Protected waters allowed tugboats and barges to safely move enormous quantities of timber along the coast, while the surrounding valley contained vast stands of old-growth Douglas fir, cedar, and hemlock. Logging companies rapidly expanded operations throughout the region during the early 20th century, constructing rail lines, camps, cookhouses, machine shops, and marine infrastructure to support the booming industry.

Life at the beach camp revolved around hard labour and strict schedules. Workers maintained rail equipment, operated steam donkeys, sorted logs in the booming grounds, repaired machinery, and loaded timber onto ships. The camp itself was largely self-contained, with bunkhouses, kitchens, maintenance buildings, and offices supporting hundreds of workers connected to the operation.

The logging railroad was the lifeline of the operation. Trains hauled massive logs from remote inland camps around Alice Lake and the upper Sayward Valley down to the coast. The sight and sound of loaded logging trains descending toward Kelsey Bay became a familiar part of daily life for decades.

Over time, advancements in trucking, road building, and mechanized logging gradually replaced the old railway and beach camp systems. By the latter half of the 20th century, many of the original camp structures disappeared as the industry evolved and operations modernized.

You Can’t Return to the Past – A Logger’s Reflection From The Old Beavertails Bulletin

There’s something quietly powerful about old bulletin clippings—those small, grainy windows into everyday lives that rarely make it into history books. This one, pulled from an old Beavertails Bulletin, captures exactly that kind of moment: a man, a place, and a way of life mid-transition.

The photo shows Vern Skogan, seated outdoors, wearing a cap and dark glasses, framed by what looks like a rugged, working landscape. The image itself feels weathered, almost as if it absorbed the same elements Vern likely did—wind, dust, long days. It’s not posed in any modern sense. It’s practical. Functional. Honest.

The caption does most of the storytelling.

Vern is identified as a “Charge Hand at the dryland sort,” which already situates him firmly within the logging industry. This isn’t just a job—it’s part of a generational thread. His father, who lived to 99, was among the original settlers in the Sawmill Valley and worked as a logger too. That detail alone stretches the story back decades, hinting at a time when the valley was being carved—both literally and figuratively—out of wilderness.

But what stands out most is not the past—it’s the change.

Vern reflects on how the townsite has shifted in recent years. Farming, once a cornerstone of the valley, has largely disappeared. Logging has taken over as the primary livelihood, supplemented slightly by commercial fishing. It’s a familiar story in many rural regions: industries evolve, economies pivot, and communities reshape themselves around what remains viable.

Yet Vern doesn’t sound bitter. There’s no romanticizing of the “good old days,” at least not in the way we might expect when looking back from the present. In fact, he says something strikingly pragmatic: “We live a lot better these days than we used to do years ago, despite people’s memories.”

That line cuts through nostalgia.

It challenges the idea that the past was inherently better. Vern acknowledges progress—material improvement, perhaps stability—even as he recognizes that people tend to remember things differently. Memory, after all, edits out the hardship and keeps the sentiment.

And then comes the final line, simple but firm: “You can’t return to the past.”

There’s no drama in it. No regret. Just acceptance.

This small clipping becomes more than a record of one man’s life. It’s a snapshot of a community in transition and a reminder of how people adapt. Vern stands at the intersection of generations—his father’s pioneering era behind him, his son working alongside him, and a changing economy unfolding in real time.

In a way, the most modern thing about this decades-old clipping is its message. We still wrestle with the same tension today: holding onto what was, while navigating what is.

And like Vern, whether we admit it or not, we’re all living somewhere in between.

Building Across the Wild – The Adam River Crossing Logging Bridge

In the rugged backcountry, where rivers cut through dense forest and the terrain resists easy passage, necessity has always driven ingenuity. This striking photograph captures one such moment—an early-stage logging bridge under construction at the Adam River crossing, where raw materials and human effort come together in a careful balance of practicality and risk.

At first glance, the scene looks deceptively simple: a series of long, stripped logs laid side by side across a narrow span. But a closer look reveals the complexity behind this structure. Each log has been placed with intention, aligned to distribute weight evenly and anchored with crosspieces and cables. Beneath them, a foundation of stacked timber supports the approach, elevating the roadway above uneven ground and guiding loads safely onto the bridge.

This type of bridge wasn’t built for elegance—it was built for survival. Logging operations depended on reliable crossings to move heavy timber out of remote areas. Steel and concrete were often unavailable or too costly to transport, so crews relied on what the forest provided. Trees became beams, braces, and decking, shaped with hand tools and muscle power. Every decision—spacing, anchoring, reinforcement—had immediate consequences for safety.

Notice the cables and rigging suspended near the center. These likely played a role in positioning the logs, acting as both lifting aids and stabilizers during construction. The workers, though difficult to make out clearly, would have operated in close quarters with heavy materials, often above rushing water. It was dangerous, exacting work that demanded both coordination and trust.

The surrounding environment tells its own story. Fallen branches, uneven banks, and dense vegetation frame the crossing, emphasizing how isolated these projects often were. There were no roads leading in—this bridge was the road. Before its completion, everything had to be carried or dragged into place.

What stands out most is the resourcefulness. Without modern machinery, crews engineered durable solutions using simple principles: load distribution, redundancy, and friction. The logs act like parallel beams, spreading the weight of wagons or early trucks. Cross-bracing prevents shifting, while the stacked base absorbs impact and stabilizes the structure against erosion.

Bridges like this were temporary by design, yet many lasted far longer than expected. They bore the weight of countless loads, endured seasonal floods, and stood as quiet testaments to the craftsmanship of the people who built them.

Today, images like this remind us that infrastructure doesn’t always begin with blueprints and cranes. Sometimes, it begins with an axe, a rope, and a clear understanding of how to make the land work with you—not against you.

The Adam River crossing is more than a bridge—it’s a snapshot of resilience, adaptation, and the relentless push to connect even the most remote corners of the landscape.

Settlers For Salmon River – Carving A Life From The Wilderness

In the early 1920s, the Salmon River Valley was still very much a frontier—remote, rugged, and full of promise. The photographs from this era capture more than just landscapes and homesteads; they reveal the determination of the settlers who chose to build a life in one of northern Vancouver Island’s most isolated regions.

Arriving at what was then a sparsely developed outpost, these early pioneers found themselves surrounded by dense forest, powerful rivers, and limited access to the outside world. The community that would become Sayward had only recently taken shape, evolving from its origins as Port Kusam at the mouth of the Salmon River . For newcomers, the journey in was often as challenging as the life that followed—travel by boat, rough trails, and unpredictable weather were part of daily reality.

The images show modest homesteads carved out of thick timber. Clearing land was the first and most demanding task. Towering Douglas fir and cedar had to be felled by hand, stumps burned or pulled, and the soil slowly coaxed into productivity. It was backbreaking work, but it laid the foundation for farms that would sustain families and support a growing settlement.

Yet these settlers were not entering an empty land. The Salmon River area had long been home to the K’ómoks First Nation, whose presence and deep connection to the land predated European settlement by generations . By the time many settlers arrived, the nearby village had been abandoned, but its history remained an important and often overlooked part of the region’s story .

Life for settlers demanded resilience and cooperation. The photos hint at a close-knit community where neighbours relied on one another for survival—sharing tools, labour, and knowledge. Supplies were scarce, and isolation meant that self-sufficiency wasn’t just valued, it was essential. Gardens, livestock, fishing, and logging all played a role in daily life.

Logging, in particular, would soon become a defining industry in the valley. What began as small-scale clearing for farms gradually expanded into larger forestry operations that shaped the economic future of the region . The same forests that posed an initial barrier would become a source of livelihood for generations to come.

There is a quiet strength in these images—families standing beside rough-hewn buildings, fields still dotted with stumps, and tools that speak to long days of labour. They tell a story not just of hardship, but of optimism. These settlers believed in the land and in their ability to make a home there.

Today, as we look back on these moments from a century ago, it’s easy to forget just how much effort it took to establish a community in such a place. The Salmon River settlers were not just residents—they were builders of a future, laying the groundwork for the Sayward Valley we know today.

Their legacy lives on in the landscape, the stories, and the enduring spirit of the region.

Life On The Edge Of Wilderness – A Pioneer’s First Year At Salmon River In The 1920s

In the early 1920s, the remote banks of the Salmon River near present-day Sayward were not yet the quiet, scenic destination many recognize today. Instead, they were the frontier—rugged, isolated, and filled with both promise and hardship for the first wave of settlers trying to carve out a life in the dense forests of northern Vancouver Island.

A newspaper account by Rene Harding, preserved by the Sayward Historical Society, offers a vivid glimpse into what that first year of settlement was really like.

A Land of Opportunity—and Challenge

The Salmon River Valley drew settlers with its fertile flats and towering timber. By the late 1800s and early 1900s, the region had already begun transitioning from a trading stop and Indigenous village site into a budding resource community fueled largely by logging and natural resource extraction.

But arriving in the 1920s meant stepping into a place where infrastructure was nearly nonexistent. Early pioneers had to build everything from scratch—homes, trails, and access routes—often using only hand tools and raw determination.

The Harding account describes a year defined by constant labour. Clearing land for farming was grueling work, with dense forest and heavy undergrowth slowing progress at every turn. Each acre gained was hard-won, and every structure built represented weeks of effort.

Isolation and Ingenuity

Life at Salmon River was marked by isolation. Transportation was limited, and connections to the outside world were infrequent. Supplies had to be carefully managed, and settlers relied heavily on one another for support.

Improvisation became a daily necessity. Families learned to adapt quickly—constructing shelters, sourcing food locally, and making do with what little they had. Hunting, fishing, and foraging were not hobbies, but essential survival skills.

Despite these hardships, there was a sense of optimism. The settlers believed in the long-term potential of the land, even when early conditions were harsh.

Weather, Work, and Resilience

The first year tested settlers in every season. Wet coastal weather, dense bush, and physical exhaustion created constant challenges. Yet the Harding account highlights a recurring theme: resilience.

Progress may have been slow, but it was steady. Gardens began to take shape, homes became more secure, and the beginnings of a community started to emerge.

This perseverance reflects a broader pattern seen across early Vancouver Island settlements—small, determined groups of people laying the groundwork for future generations.

Foundations of a Community

What makes this account especially compelling is how it captures a moment before Sayward became a structured community. At the time, the area was still evolving from its early identity as Port Kusam, a small settlement tied to trade, forestry, and river access.

The experiences described in that first year would ultimately contribute to the development of the Salmon River Valley and surrounding communities, helping shape the region’s identity as a forestry-driven hub in the decades that followed.

Remembering the Pioneers

Today, it’s easy to overlook the sheer effort required to establish communities in remote areas like Salmon River. Roads, services, and modern conveniences now connect the region—but they are built on the foundations laid by those early settlers.

Accounts like Rene Harding’s serve as a reminder of that legacy. They preserve not just the facts of history, but the lived experiences—the struggles, hopes, and determination—that defined life in the Sayward Valley a century ago.

Their story is one of endurance, adaptability, and belief in the land—qualities that continue to shape the community to this day.