Welcoming Party

by | May 29, 2026 23:43 | History

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

by | May 20, 2026 01:20 | History

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.

Shorty McKinlay – A Sayward Original

by | Apr 11, 2026 06:24 | History

Shorty McKinlay A Sayward Original
Shorty McKinlay A Sayward Original
Shorty McKinlay A Sayward Original
Shorty McKinlay A Sayward Original

In small coastal communities, legends aren’t made in headlines—they’re built over coffee at the café, in the bush, on the docks, and around stories that get better every time they’re told. In the village of Sayward, one such figure still lives on in memory and local lore: “Shorty” McKinlay.

Nobody needed to ask who you meant when you said “Shorty.” In a place where everyone knows everyone, a nickname like that doesn’t just stick—it becomes a badge of identity. And like many nicknames on Vancouver Island, it likely had a story behind it that only got funnier (or more exaggerated) with time.

A Man of the Bush

To understand Shorty McKinlay, you have to understand Sayward in its working years. This was a community built on logging, fishing, and grit. The forests surrounding the valley weren’t just scenery—they were livelihoods.

Men like Shorty were part of that world. Whether he spent his days falling timber, running equipment, or working the rough edges of camp life, he would have been shaped by the same forces that defined generations of coastal workers: hard labor, unpredictable conditions, and a deep respect for the land.

Logging culture in mid-century Vancouver Island wasn’t polished—it was practical, tough, and often laced with humor. And that’s where personalities like Shorty stood out.

Larger Than Life

Ironically, nicknames like “Shorty” often belonged to men who were anything but small in presence. In communities like Sayward, reputation traveled fast, and being known usually meant you had a story—or a dozen—attached to your name.

Maybe it was his work ethic. Maybe it was his sense of humor. Maybe it was the way he handled himself in a tight spot. Whatever it was, Shorty McKinlay became one of those people others remembered, talked about, and pointed to as part of what made the town what it was.

These weren’t celebrities in the traditional sense—but in a place like Sayward, they didn’t need to be.

The Social Fabric of a Small Town

Beyond the work itself, life in Sayward revolved around community. Evenings might mean gathering at a local hall, sharing stories after a long shift, or catching up with neighbors who were often also coworkers.

People like Shorty were part of that fabric. They helped define the tone of the place—the jokes, the stories, the sense of belonging. In small towns, personality matters. It shapes how people remember their home.

Memory and Legacy

There may not be official records or plaques dedicated to “Shorty” McKinlay, but that’s not how legacy works in places like this. It lives in stories passed down through families, in offhand mentions that spark laughter, and in the quiet recognition of a name that still means something decades later.

In many ways, figures like Shorty represent a broader truth about communities like Vancouver Island: their history isn’t just built by companies or milestones, but by individuals whose lives—ordinary on paper—were anything but in practice.

A Name That Sticks

Today, Sayward is quieter than it was during its peak logging years, but its character remains. And woven into that character are the people who helped shape it—people like “Shorty” McKinlay.

You might not find his name in history books, but in Sayward, that hardly matters.

Because sometimes, the most enduring legacies aren’t written down—they’re remembered.

B&S&W Logging In The 1950s And The Early Days of Larry McKinlay

by | Apr 11, 2026 06:12 | History

In the rugged coastal forests of northern Vancouver Island, the 1950s marked a defining era for industrial logging—and few names were as central to that story as Bloedel, Stewart and Welch. Operating extensively in and around the Sayward region, B&S&W helped transform a remote landscape into a hub of resource extraction, innovation, and tight-knit community life.

Amid the roar of chainsaws and the thunder of falling timber, a generation of young men came of age in the bush. Among them was a young Larry McKinlay—one of many who would be shaped by the grit, danger, and camaraderie of coastal logging camps.

The Rise of Industrial Logging in Sayward

By the early 1950s, Bloedel, Stewart and Welch had established itself as a dominant force in British Columbia’s forestry sector. With vast timber licenses and access to old-growth forests, the company set up operations throughout the Sayward Valley and surrounding inlets.

Logging in this era was not for the faint of heart. Crews worked in steep, rain-soaked terrain, felling massive Douglas fir and cedar trees that had stood for centuries. Equipment was evolving—steam donkeys were giving way to diesel-powered yarders—but the work remained intensely physical and often dangerous.

Logs were hauled to booming grounds in coastal inlets like Kelsey Bay, then sorted and transported to mills. The scale of operations was immense, and B&S&W played a key role in feeding both domestic and international demand for lumber during the postwar boom.

Life in the Camps

For workers, logging camps were more than just job sites—they were entire communities. Isolated from towns, these camps provided bunkhouses, cookhouses, and a structured daily rhythm built around long shifts and hard labor.

Meals were hearty, the coffee was strong, and the bonds between workers ran deep. In an environment where every man relied on the others for safety, trust was everything.

It was into this world that young Larry McKinlay stepped.

A Young Logger’s Beginning

Like many local boys, Larry McKinlay was drawn into the logging industry at a young age. Opportunities in Sayward during the 1950s were closely tied to the forest, and logging offered both a livelihood and a rite of passage.

Starting out in entry-level roles—perhaps as a chokerman or swamper—Larry would have quickly learned the realities of bush work: the unpredictability of falling timber, the precision required to rig cables, and the constant awareness needed to stay alive.

But beyond the danger, there was also pride. Logging wasn’t just a job; it was a craft. Young workers like Larry were mentored by seasoned hands, absorbing knowledge that couldn’t be taught in classrooms.

Innovation Meets Tradition

The 1950s were also a time of transition in the logging industry. Companies like B&S&W were beginning to adopt new technologies that would eventually reshape forestry work—chainsaws replacing crosscut saws, improved transportation networks, and early mechanization.

Yet much of the work still relied on human strength and skill. This blend of old and new defined the era, and those who worked through it—like Larry McKinlay—experienced firsthand the shift from traditional to modern logging practices.

A Lasting Legacy

The impact of Bloedel, Stewart and Welch on Sayward cannot be overstated. The company’s operations brought jobs, infrastructure, and a sense of purpose to the region. Roads carved through dense forest would later open access for residents and tourists alike.

For individuals like Larry McKinlay, the experience of working in the bush during this formative period likely left a lasting imprint—one of resilience, resourcefulness, and connection to the land.

Remembering the Era

Today, it’s easy to forget just how demanding and foundational this work was. The forests around Sayward still stand as a testament to both nature’s scale and the human effort required to harvest it.

Looking back at the 1950s, we see more than just an industry—we see a way of life. One where companies like B&S&W drove economic growth, and where young men like Larry McKinlay found their footing in a world defined by towering trees and the relentless rhythm of the saw.

It’s a story of hard work, community, and the enduring legacy of logging on Vancouver Island.

The K’ómoks Peoples and the Salmon River Region: A History of Shared Relationships and Continuity

by | Apr 11, 2026 05:53 | History

The Salmon River, known to many Indigenous peoples as X̱wa̱sam (H’kusam), lies within a landscape that has been shaped by thousands of years of Indigenous occupation, travel, kinship, and cultural exchange. Today, the area near present-day Sayward is understood not as the historical territory of a single community alone, but as part of a broader network of interconnected Indigenous peoples whose relationships evolved over generations.

Among those with longstanding historical connections to the region are the ancestors of today’s K’ómoks First Nation, alongside other related communities, including the Sathloot (Łałutł) and Säsitla peoples. Indigenous oral histories, historical records, and ethnographic research all contribute to our understanding of this history, although each source offers a different perspective. Together, they describe a dynamic coastal landscape where neighbouring Nations maintained overlapping patterns of land use, family ties, trade, and governance rather than fixed territorial boundaries.

A Region of Shared Occupation

The northeast coast of Vancouver Island has long been characterized by movement and connection. Rivers, inlets, and sheltered coastal waters served as important travel corridors linking communities for fishing, harvesting, trade, marriage, ceremony, and diplomacy.

Historical accounts indicate that the Salmon River area was one of several places occupied and visited by related Indigenous groups over many generations. Rather than representing an isolated settlement belonging exclusively to one Nation, the region formed part of a larger network of communities whose relationships were shaped through kinship, shared language, and longstanding alliances.

Contemporary Indigenous perspectives emphasize that this history is best understood as one of overlapping occupation and continuing relationships among multiple related Nations.

Change During the Nineteenth Century

The early and mid-1800s brought profound change to Indigenous communities throughout the Pacific Northwest. Epidemics introduced by Europeans, environmental events, changing economic conditions, and periods of conflict all affected population patterns across the coast.

Historical sources describe shifts in where some families and communities lived during this period, including movement between settlements on the northeast coast of Vancouver Island and farther south into the Comox Valley. These changes did not occur as a single event, nor did they represent the disappearance of Indigenous peoples from the Salmon River region. Instead, they reflect changing patterns of occupation within a network of continuing Indigenous presence and interrelated communities.

While settlement locations evolved over time, kinship ties, governance relationships, and cultural connections continued across the region.

The Growth of the Modern K’ómoks First Nation

As communities adapted to changing circumstances, families from several related Indigenous groups continued to build relationships through intermarriage, shared governance, and cultural continuity.

Historical and Indigenous community accounts describe the present-day K’ómoks First Nation as reflecting the convergence and continuation of multiple ancestral communities, including K’ómoks-speaking groups, Säsitla, Walatsa’ma lineages, and other related peoples. These relationships developed over generations and remain an important part of the Nation’s history and identity.

Rather than representing the beginning of a new people, the modern K’ómoks First Nation reflects the continuation of longstanding Indigenous communities adapting while maintaining their cultural identity, governance, and family connections.

Understanding a Complex Historical Landscape

The history of the Salmon River region cannot be understood through a single source alone. Our knowledge comes from several complementary forms of evidence, including:

  • Indigenous oral histories and community knowledge;
  • historical narratives shared by Indigenous authors and Elders;
  • ethnographic research recorded during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries;
  • colonial-era documents; and
  • modern historical scholarship.

These sources sometimes emphasize different aspects of the past. While dates, locations, and interpretations may vary, they collectively illustrate that the northeast coast of Vancouver Island has always been a place of movement, interaction, and enduring relationships among neighbouring Indigenous communities.

An Enduring Indigenous Presence

Today, the Salmon River region remains part of a living Indigenous landscape. The area’s history is not one of disappearance or replacement but of continuity, adaptation, and interconnected relationships that extend across communities and generations.

Recognizing this complexity helps provide a more complete understanding of the region’s past. Rather than viewing the Salmon River as the territory of a single people with a linear historical trajectory, it is more accurately understood as part of a historically shared landscape shaped by overlapping occupation, intermarriage, alliances, and enduring cultural connections.

The K’ómoks First Nation continues to maintain deep cultural and historical ties to this broader landscape, alongside the continuing histories and relationships of neighbouring Indigenous Nations whose connections to the region remain equally significant.