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They missed the turn-off from Darke Lake twice. When they realized they'd driven too far, they doubled back from Toad River and missed it again. On the third pass, Sam noticed the fallen sign hidden by a tree. Their map was vague and had it not been for Sam's chance find, they might have never found the almost concealed entrance. The twisted green and white sign announced the overgrown gravel path as "Wokkpash Road". It was a generous description; more like a dirt path. If the trip up from Prince George had been dull, this one was its polar opposite. The vicious potholes tossed the passengers like popcorn in boiling oil. After countless hours on the mud-soaked dirt road, with no possible release from the endless, dreary expanse of trees and sheer cliffs, the three travellers began to think they were completely lost. Just when they were despairing, and had gone far past the end of the dotted line on their map, a deep, yawning valley opened out below them. Jagged white-capped mountains surrounded the road on either side, looming above like oblivious sentinels monitoring their slow descent. The car eventually passed through successive layers of dense, fog-like storm clouds and left the clear mountain air for the damp, soggy, mosquito-infested world beneath the peaks. An infinitesimally tiny insect lost in a megalithic landscape, the rickety four-wheel-drive bumped and careened around hair-pin turns and dangerously steep inclines, nearly sailing over several precipices before it reached the bottom of the narrow valley. There, nestled between the rushing thunder of the mighty Kwadacha River and the barren cliffs of the Omineca Mountains, was the village of Camel Station. "Village" was somewhat innacurate, Christa mused as she desperately tried to maintain control of the truck. If you stretched the meaning of the word to its semantic limit and included every isolated cabin within a hundred kilometres, you might call it a loosely-knit habitation. Still, it was the only populated centre this far north, and it was close enough to the site to be useful for supplies and, hopefully, telephones. The place was actually smaller than they thought it would be. Not just in area or population, or in relation to the humbling surroundings of roughly-hewn stone and giant trees, but in another way that they couldn't quite identify. It was as if the townfolk were trying to hide from the land itself, huddled in fear, shrinking from the daylight and peering out furtively at the vast forested wilderness. Anything could hide in this vertical geography. It was difficult to see how sunlight could even penetrate the high mountain walls for more than a few hours at mid-day, in summer. Bears and wolverines were likely the townspeople's only neighbours. The road was covered in sludgy mud. It could only be called a road because there weren't any other names for something a vehicle is ostensibly meant to drive on. The intersection of Main Street and The Avenue was utterly deserted. While they searched for a good place to leave the truck, the vehicle's occupants got their first good view of "downtown". There was a pub on one corner, or at least a building with a wooden sign that said "Pub", in crudely drawn child's letters. Barely painted a sickly green, it resembled a diner's washroom shaken inside-out. Stains of various descriptions covered the patchwork roof and reinforced the image. Shingles clung tenaciously to the places where bare wood and insulation weren't exposed. Kitty-corner to it was the most poorly kept church the travellers had ever seen. All signs of colour had long ago disappeared and it was languishing in the most wretched and unbelievable state of disrepair. One of the windows was missing and the steeple wasn't much more than a shaft of jagged, rotting wood slicing the afternoon sky. The whole structure was waiting for the next storm to topple it. Incredibly, the derelict building was still in use. The notice identified the church as belonging to the "United Order of the Cross", an evangelical organization of some kind. The only other public building in the area was on the south-east corner. One of those general all-purpose structures you find in small towns across the country, its remains bore the marks of a recent fire. It looked like it had served as a train station at one time, though there was no extant evidence of rails. More recently it had been the town hall and library. Paper was loosely scattered in a circle around the entrance. "The Store" stood on the north-west corner. Just to be sure that no-one mistook the building for something else, a big coloured sign brooded over the doorway. Its bright red artfully drawn gothic lettering, bizarrely out of place in this land of certain quasi-literacy, proclaimed "Le Store" to all potential passersby. This, of course, comprised the three of them and a large number of immense, gawking crows. There were no townspeople anywhere, nor evidence of their presence. Christa pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her shirt pocket and smoothed it out, and read the address. After a brief search, their ancient vehicle pulled up to a sprawling two-storey modern house. It was in remarkably good condition, considering the state of the rest of the town. The imposing structure was set into the side of a hill, and a long flight of steps led up to the entrance. The three of them plodded up to the front door. A heavy iron knocker was screwed onto it. After they banged it three times in rapid succession, it opened slowly. The grizzled old face that spoke peered out from behind a wide-brimmed hat. It didn't look very happy. "What?", it croaked. Christa cleared her throat. "Hello. We're looking for Mr. Grimsley, the mayor of Camel Station." The old man grunted. His huge, yellow buck teeth made speaking seem almost painful. "Mm. Yes, well, what do you want with him, eh?" "Um, we're the archaeologists from Okanagan University. We're here for the equipment, for the dig out by Thudaka River." He paused for a long moment. "Right. Well, he's me. You'll want to be staying in town. No hotels, so you'll have to stay here. Hold on." As he turned to go back into the house, Sam interrupted. "Actually, we were planning to camp at the site. We have a lot of work to do before the rest of the crew arrives." The man paused. Slowly, floorboards creaking, he turned back. His furry brows curled. "You won't want to do that. There's beds here for you, and it gets pretty cold out there at night". It took some imagination to believe this. It had to be forty five degrees in the shade, and drippingly humid. Christa would have taken off her shirt, but she wasn't wearing a bra. And it wouldn't be appropriate in a place like this. Not that there was much of a public to be uncomfortable about half-naked women. "Umm", she answered,"no, really, I think we'll be o.k." He turned away, eyeing them suspiciously. "Well, I'll just get the equipment for you, then. Make sure you bring back anything you can't use." |