I first spotted Bill Robinson’s cabin in 1976 when I began regularly

travelling the winding #3 Highway between Hope and Hedley. Nestled among trees and brush, and separated from the highway by the Sumallo River, the cabin seemed shrouded in an aura of mystery.

It appeared well constructed with a stone fireplace and chimney. Whoever built it must have planned to stay awhile. It’s ravaged, weathered exterior had obviously already been exposed to many years of frigid winter winds and heavy snowfalls.

In addition to the cabin, there were two outbuildings, all apparently empty and equally neglected. I wondered what sort of individual had chosen to live in this remote mountainous valley. Had its inhabitant become dissatisfied with the expectations of civilization? Had he (I assumed it was a man) felt rejected by people? What had driven him to this place where contact with society must have been scant?

In the hope of satisfying my curiosity, I began seeking answers to my myriad questions. Bill Robinson didn’t make my quest easy. He apparently didn’t leave behind any account of his life. Michael Cluckner’s ” Vanishing British Columbia” did provide some useful information, as did comments on his blogsite left by others.

Robinson named his home Camp Defiance, probably because he was defying the wilderness. He was a prospector and the proprietor of Foundation Mines. I came across no record of him having hit pay dirt, but he must have discovered a bonanza in the realm of life experience.

It is believed Robinson was there from the end of World War I. In Vol. 46, 1982 of the Okanagan Historical Society, Joan Greenwood wrote that in August, 1926 a nurse, Mary Warburton set out from Hope by foot to pick fruit in the Okanagan. The #3 Highway did not yet exist so she must have been on the Dewdney Trail, which ran close by Camp Defiance. She knocked on Robinson’s door but he was still in bed. By the time he had got dressed and opened the door, she was disappearing from sight down the trail. She got lost in the mountains and was missing for several weeks. Coming across the cabin owned by “Podunk” Davis, she lit a fire in the stove and accidentally burned the place. This drew the attention of Podunk and she was rescued.

In 1929 Rev. John C Goodfellow was walking from Hope to Princeton. He later wrote “After a while … we came to the first sign of civilization since leaving the Overland (car) at Mile 9 Bridge. This was Camp Defiance. We walked right in and received a royal welcome from a man named Robinson.”

A couple of years later Bruce Hutchinson, a writer for the Province Sunday Magazine also walked the trail. In the August 10, 1931 issue he wrote, “Camp Defiance is almost the farthest thrust of civilization in these mountains. His little garden of strawberries, lettuce, and potatoes, 6 petunias and 8 Sweet Williams, in the narrow gorge between the mountain and the stream, are a welcome sight to those who have just come out of the wilderness. And so are the big firm trout Bill caught at his back door last night, and the pie made from his late ripening strawberries.”

It is evident from the few brief accounts that Robinson was not deranged, a malcontent or a hermit. Rather he was gregarious and hospitable. Many years later Leo McIver worked along the Hope-Princeton Highway. Sometimes he visited Camp Defiance. His son Len wrote “Bill burned wood in his fireplace and coal oil in lamps. He and his cronies told stories, fished, drank and dreamed.”

Sometimes men brought their wives, but I have seen no mention of Robinson having a wife. In this setting it would almost certainly have been mentioned if there had been a woman present. White men frequently had common law relationships with aboriginal women. Bill Robinson apparently did not.

The fact that Leo McIver visited Camp Defiance after the highway was built in 1949 indicates Robinson was there at least until then. In the end though, he slipped into oblivion as quietly as he had come. He left behind no diary so all we have are the minimal memories recorded by others. This winter Linda and I pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway to capture a few photos. Not much left of the cabin. Like Bill Robinson, it will soon be only a memory, still shrouded in mystery.

Toward the end of 2014 I wrote about Laura, “the Prettiest Girl in Manning Park.” A couple of days ago Linda and I stopped there to pick up coffees to go, and discovered that for the past year Laura has had an equally pretty work partner. Manning Park often surprises and delights us with its grandeur, beauty and fresh air. Meeting Janis was another Manning Park surprise.

When we walked into the store, which Laura manages, we sensed quickly she was even more upbeat than usual. She embraced us warmly – the first time ever.

We had not seen Laura since posting the column about her. The hugs seemed to suggest the story had been a positive experience. I mentioned that the blog had received a vast increase in visits for a few days after that post. “You must have a lot of fans,” I said. She smiled.

“The Lodge manager become aware of the post.” she explained. “He publicized it around here”. She seemed happy about the recognition.

Then she told us about Janis, a young German gal who has worked at Manning for a year. As she spoke, I began to wonder if Laura had something in mind. “Janis learned about the Lodge at the Jobs Fair in Vancouver,” she said. “Adolfo, one of the young men who works here, was at the fair. He thought she was wonderful and urged us to hire her.” She glanced at her watch. “Janis is due to come into the store in 5 minutes.” It seemed she hoped we’d wait. “Her time in Canada will be up in 4 days, but she wants to come back and live here. She says Canadians are more friendly.” Laura’s voice exuded warmth and excitement as she spoke of her work partner and friend.

While she went to serve a customer, we examined a display of warm

gloves knitted by women in Nepal. When Janis entered the store area, she and Laura spoke quietly for just a moment. Then she approached us smiling. Extending her hand she said, “hi, I’m Janis.” Her lovely face was attractively framed by auburn brown hair. It was the smile that captivated us and won us over immediately.

We asked Janis a few questions and she answered without hesitating, apparently completely trusting Laura‘s assessment of us. Her command of English was virtually flawless and her smile radiated joy. It was as though she knew about us and had anticipated our arrival and our questions. I wondered if Laura had primed her for this moment, hoping she too would be written about and have a positive experience to take back to Germany.

“When I learned about Manning Park Lodge,” Janis told us, “I wanted to work here. I met Adolfo at the Fair but I don’t remember him. There were too many distractions. He is the one who told Laura they should hire me. When I met him here, I fell in love right away, and he did too.” She smiled.

“Adolfo is from Mexico,” she continued. “In a few days I have to return to Germany. My time in Canada is up. In May I will go to Mexico.” The smile on her pretty face was that of a young woman who loves and is loved. “Adolfo and I are both interested in tourism,” she said. “I plan to go to university in Germany to get trained for it.”

Knowing we needed to let her attend to her duties at the cash register, I said “will you let me take a picture ?” I reached into the pocket of my jacket for the camera.

“Yes,” she said. Again I felt she had expected I would make this request. By now I was definitely wondering if we were following

Laura’s mental script for this occasion. After snapping several shots of her by the Manning Park Lodge fireplace, I requested a photo of Janis and Laura behind the counter. Laura put an arm around Janis. Her joy at seeing her friend get this attention warmed our hearts. Their love and caring for each other was like that of two sisters who have shared a significant life experience and have grown close.

I think of January as the unofficial season of good intentions. Like a lot of people, I’ve made numerous New Years Resolutions to change some aspect of my life. By February they have always been pretty much forgotten.

Having worked with inmates in most Lower Mainland prisons, I know that for men and women coming out of prison, change is even more difficult. Many have lost family connections. Often they have few employment skills. They may know only other ex-cons and have no positive vision for themselves. There is little hope for a better future.

Upon release some return immediately to their previous haunts. Prison regulations have stripped them of the ability to plan and organize their lives. It was only with the assistance of a mentor that my friend Peter was able to throw off the far reaching shackles of prison life.

As a boy, Peter told me, he sometimes helped himself to items in stores. If caught, his father made him pay, then gave him a whipping.

“As I got older,” he said, “I started drinking and hanging out with a rough crowd.”

He credits his father with ensuring he knew how to work. “I always had a job,” he said, “and I always had money. When I was 20 I bought a brand new convertible. I traded that for a pickup and drove from Ontario to B.C.”

In BC he attended a noisy drinking party. “I had money so I brought booze. I didn’t realize some of the girls were under age. The police came and I was arrested.”

That earned him time in Oakalla for contributing to juvenile delinquency. Here he became acquainted with hard core criminals. Upon release he began doing B & E’s with a partner. That netted him 2 years in the B.C. Penitentiary.

He applied to M2/W2 (Man to Man, Woman to Woman) for a citizen sponsor and was matched with Henry, a no nonsense poultry farmer who attended a conservative Mennonite church. Henry visited Peter regularly and they engaged in some intense discussions, especially concerning his culture, simple life style and faith. Peter came to respect Henry for his inner strength, solid character, and total integrity. He had never been close to a strong, compassionate individual before. Pragmatic and astute, Henry evidently saw the potential in this head strong young man.

Over 14 months, a bond developed and through Henry’s influence, Peter came to have a more positive understanding of life. It was by no means a complete change though and when he was given early parole, his intention was to return to Vancouver. “I had nothing and nowhere to go,” he said.

Henry picked Peter up at the prison, with the understanding he would drop him off in Vancouver. Realizing Peter would almost certainly return to his criminal life, he suggested, “why don’t you come and see my farm?” Having no better plan, Peter agreed.

“Henry introduced me to his wife and children. They welcomed me. I felt at ease and accepted.” He stayed a few days and when the contractor building a barn for Henry needed a worker, he hired Peter. “You can live with us,” Henry offered.

The family’s simple lifestyle was unfamiliar to Peter at first. He didn’t resent their ways though. “Henry always gave thanks to God before meals. I liked that.”

“At first going to church with them was scary because it was so unfamiliar,” he remembers. “ But people were friendly. They already knew about me from Henry. I felt accepted.”

Before long he married Sylvia, a young woman from the church. He learned several trades and always had work. They bought a small acreage and raised their 4 children there. Peter is now semi- retired.

His words when we spoke recently helped me understand more fully what had made the transformation possible. “Henry was a good influence,” he said. “ I give him and the people of the church credit for helping me learn to have stability in my life. And I give God the credit for giving me a family, friends, the jobs I’ve had, and our little farm. Everything. I could not have done this on my own.” Change comes more easily when we have a friend who encourages us to go in a good direction.

On a dark street near the outskirts of a prairie community, at age 13

Janet Christie had her first taste of alcohol with a friend. It would be a life altering moment. At 21 she bore Cole. She didn’t realize at the time that because she had continued drinking during her pregnancy, her baby’s entire life would be severely impacted. Their story is one of turmoil, trauma, terror, and ultimate victory. For anyone contending with difficult circumstances, especially alcoholism and its consequences , they are a beacon of hope. Janet is telling their story because she wants women to be aware of the crushing toll that may be exacted if they drink while pregnant.

In a phone interview from her home near Victoria, she permitted me to enter some of the dark inner recesses of a past that is not pretty. “After I had that first taste of alcohol,” she said, “life was never the same again. In the beginning it was fun. Then it was fun with problems. In the end, it was just problems.”

Janet grew up in a church going family. Photos indicate she had stunning looks. There were positives, but they were over powered by her thirst for alcohol. Partying took over her life and Cory, her boyfriend, had a similar wild streak. He was 5 years older and had plenty of money. For them the well of alcohol had no bottom.

Janet was 18 when they got married. She became pregnant with Cole 3 years later. Intuition suggested to her alcohol might be harmful to the baby. “My doctor told me the placenta would not permit alcohol to pass through,” she said. “His words didn’t convince me entirely, but I had no control. Also, we were having serious difficulties in our marriage. Alcohol helped me cope. ”

She experienced great relief when Cole entered the world with no apparent complications. “He appeared totally normal, a beautiful lovable baby. I soon decided he was very bright, maybe even a genius,” she remembers.

The marriage ended abruptly and suddenly she was alone with Cole and her addiction. Fearing he would be taken from her, she didn’t seek help. “I wished I had never taken that first drink,” she said, “but how was I to know it would rock my world and catapult me through the gates of hell?”

When he started school, Janet’s consternation level soared, but she didn’t understand yet that by drinking during the pregnancy, Cole had also been catapulted through those same gates.

“My son, who I believed was brilliant, had great difficulty learning the alphabet and numbers didn’t make sense to him,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “I knew something was very wrong when he failed grade one. With each increasing grade, life became more difficult for him. Other students told him he was stupid and he reacted by fighting. Teachers accused him of being lazy and not trying. Not being able to learn like the others, he became disruptive in class. Teachers made him sit on a chair in the hallway. He couldn’t tell time until he was 10, so frequently he was late for school. A number of schools expelled him.”

“At home it was equally difficult,” she said. “He became so frustrated and angry, he punched holes in the walls. In one apartment his fists went through to the outside. We were evicted. He thought he must be stupid.”

Janet admits she was rarely in a state to give Cole constructive direction or provide supervision. By his 12th birthday, her life was rapidly spinning out of control and consequently so was his. “He was hanging out with older guys and doing drugs. I had lost my job and rarely left the apartment except to get basics, mostly cigarettes, milk and booze.”

One morning she awoke and the smell of cigarette butts and the empties scattered on the kitchen table made her stomach churn. In a rare lucid moment, she became frantic. “Suddenly I needed to know where Cole was. I wanted to know if he had come home last night. Was he ok? My son had become a crack addict. I knew I would lose him if I didn’t make a radical change. In desperation, I appealed to a recovery support group. That day my healing began.”

She hesitated, gathering courage. I wondered if there were tears. “For Cole it was almost too late,” she said. “A week into my sobriety, the phone rang in the darkness of the night. A voice at the other end told me Cole was in a closet in a crack house and the police had a gun to his head.”

Janet called government services, institutions, universities, vainly seeking help. One worker told her, “you created the problem. You fix it.”

“Finally when Cole was 20, a paediatrician diagnosed him with partial FAS. I was then able to explain to him that his problems were my fault. He forgave me long before I forgave myself.” Her voice faltered for a moment as she recalled this scene.

“With the diagnosis, I had a better understanding of my son. He needed someone to believe in him, be patient with him, love him and help him.”

Now 36, Cole has a siding application business. He is in a relationship with a woman who is understanding and helps him manage his affairs.

Janet finished by offering this advice, “I wish to say to women who have been drinking and find themselves pregnant, stop. The brain is vulnerable the entire 9 months of pregnancy, and the moment you stop drinking is the moment the damage stops. If you can’t stop, get help. Today. Contact your nearest alcohol and drug service (1.800.663.1441). There is no shame in asking for help. You have no idea the power each drink has to affect the rest of your life and your baby’s life. Forever. FAS is FOREVER.”