What was I doing here? Now in my fifth year at the University of British Columbia, it seemed like I was just spinning my wheels. After 3 years spent studying zoology, I had switched majors and was now finishing a degree in geology. You wouldn’t know it, though, if you had observed me in the midst of the drunken or stoned weekends which had become my norm – I fit the classic definition of a slacker to a T. It was 1968 – we had  finished our Christmas exams and a few of us were still staying at our men’s dorm on campus before heading home for the holidays. One of the guys knew a student nurse at a large hospital in the city and arranged for several of her friends to come on over to the dorm to party on December 20th. Over the course of the evening, I became quite smitten with one of them, a girl named Gloria.

As the Christmas break approached, I had found myself becoming quite obsessed with an idea I’d hatched, a trip I wanted to take. The day after the party, I left the city and hitchhiked home to the small town of Mission, only 50 miles away, where my mother and sisters lived. Looking back on that visit over 50 years ago, I regret that I didn’t stay longer – I visited them far less often than I should have, and it still saddens me to think of it. After only the remainder of that day at home, I selfishly left the following morning –  I didn’t even stay for Christmas. My younger sister had been killed in a car accident by a drunk driver the previous year, and it would have been healing for me to have spent that time at home with my family, but I was too wrapped up in my own plans to do so.

My plan was to hitchhike to the Rockies, 500 miles distant, and camp out for a while (and maybe even climb something, conditions allowing). Because it was winter, I was sure it’d be challenging fun. The morning of the 23rd, my friend Joe gave me a ride to the highway 10 miles away.

It was cold, and snowing lightly. My first ride only gained me 20 miles, but then I lucked out, scoring a ride all the way to Summerland, BC, about 200 miles. My room-mate George’s family lived there, and I arrived about 6:00 PM. It was great to see them and I received a warm welcome. It was definitely winter there – cold, with plenty of snow. Hmmm, if it was this cold here, what was I in for when I reached the Rocky Mountains? There, it was higher and farther inland, and almost certainly the temperature would be lower.

Day 2

George dropped me off at the highway near his home, and I started hitchhiking again.

It was late, already 9 o’clock, and pretty darn cold – it took an hour and a half to catch a ride, but it was for only 50 miles to the city of Kelowna. From there, another ride to the town of Winfield, about 15 miles, this time from an RCMP officer. I was a bit paranoid when he picked me up (kind of like Rambo in First Blood) – I couldn’t tell if he was trying to get me out of town, or if he was just a nice guy. The thing about hitchhiking is that you’re at the mercy of drivers passing by, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers – after all, it’s a free ride, right? Maybe. Back in this era, 1968, we hippies had an expression, one we all knew, and here’s how it went: “Ass, gas or grass! Nobody rides for free.” It applied more if a hippie was giving you a ride, and I’ll bet you can figure out the meaning all by yourself.

My next ride was another short one, about 22 miles, to the city of Vernon, and it was one of those rides you wish you’d never accepted. The guy was driving like a fool – he must have been drunk, and scared the daylights out of me – I was so glad to get out of his car. Another short one, about 40 miles, from an older gent deposited me at the town of Salmon Arm. I then made it another 20 miles to Sicamous, thanks to 2 young men. After they dropped me off, it seemed like I stood there forever on the highway, in the dark, trying for my next ride. It was so cold and windy, I was really suffering. I had actually given up hope of catching a ride, and was on the verge of calling George back in Summerland to see if I could call it quits and get on the Greyhound back to his place, when I had a stroke of luck.

As I stood inside the nearby gas station and was placing the call on a pay phone, an Englishman came up to me and asked if I might be the fellow who was trying to catch a ride east (I guess the folks who worked at the station had mentioned me to him when he gassed up – I had been out front hitching for so long, they were probably getting nervous and wanted to get rid of me). I thought I had died and gone to heaven!!  He was heading my way and I gladly accepted his offer of a ride. We drove 150 miles through the night, and the hours passed quickly as we chatted about all manner of things. The blowing snow was hypnotic in the headlights, a harbinger of things to come.

It was late when we arrived in the town of Golden, BC. The driver pulled into a motel outside of town and got a room for the night. I wasn’t carrying much cash (this was before I ever owned a credit card) and was carefully nursing it for whatever might come later. I had spent the summers of 1965 and 1966 working here in a big sawmill and still had friends living here. Although it was crazy-late, I called one of them and asked if I could crash at his place for the night. No problem, he said, and even drove over to pick me up. It’d been a few years since our last visit, and we stayed up even later over a few joints.

Day 3

Very early the next morning, after precious little sleep, Brian drove me back over to the Selkirk Inn on the highway. My English friend had said that if I showed up early enough, I could continue my ride east with him. I was on time, even early, and bought us both a hot breakfast before we hit the road. It was an easy drive, 50 miles along the Trans-Canada Highway, to the Lake Louise Junction. On that drive, we passed through Yoho National Park and the village of Field, the last community in British Columbia, then into the province of Alberta when we crossed the continental divide. He dropped me off where Highway 93 headed north, he continuing east. I was very grateful for his having carried me so far – if he hadn’t come along at the moment he did, I know I would have given up. He wouldn’t take anything for gas, and wished me well.

There I stood on the shoulder of the road – the highway north was called the Icefields Parkway. I was in Banff National Park at 5,120 feet. It was a bright, sunny morning and it was cold. I was carrying a good thermometer, and it read -10 degrees Fahrenheit. (-23 degrees Celsius). Dang, that was cold! I was wearing my steel-shank leather mountaineering boots, my Galibier Peutereys, and it was all I could do to keep my feet warm by stamping them constantly on the pavement. It took an hour and a half, but I finally got a ride.

What a ride it was! The man who drove the pickup truck was a building contractor from Calgary, and he was incredulous that I was standing out there hitching a ride north into the middle of nowhere. When he learned that I was just out to have some fun, maybe climb something along the way, in the middle of winter, he couldn’t believe it. I told him I was a university student on my Christmas break. He told me that he had a hard time keeping employees on his construction sites, and offered me a job right then and there, to come and work for him in Alberta.

After 85 miles, we arrived at the Columbia Icefields – the place was totally deserted. About 17 miles beyond that, I asked him to drop me off at a spot called the Jonas Creek Campground. He asked me one last time to consider his offer of work, but I politely declined and he continued north. The campground was closed for the winter. There were actually times in harsh winters when the Icefields Parkway would close for days at a time due to heavy snows.

I had the place to myself. There were 2 feet of snow on the ground, on the roads, on the picnic tables. I didn’t have a tent with me, so I took a good look around for a place to sleep.

There was a small concrete structure where they kept metal garbage cans – they were all empty, so I took them out and set them aside. This would be my home for a while, this bunker. Inside this little concrete room with a metal door, I set out my blue foam mattress and sleeping bag. My bunker was about 7 feet long, 3 feet wide and maybe 4 feet high. Kind of like being in solitary, and when the door was closed, as dark as the inside of an undertaker’s hat.

When I arrived, the temperature was a balmy +15 degrees F (-10 C), and I felt that things might warm up after all. There wasn’t a lot of daylight left, so I settled in for the night – camping in the winter in northern climes can be trying. After something to eat, I crawled into my sleeping bag, and spent the next 17 1/2 hours there. I slept well, but that was one long night.

Day 4

Merry Christmas! No stocking hung by the chimney with care, not here. I awoke to a pleasant +5F (-15C) and burst open the door of my coffin to a partly overcast sky. After a few freeze-dried pork chops, it was time to enjoy the day. Sunwapta Peak was about 6 miles back south along the highway, and I had entertained the idea of trying to climb it, but the snow was too deep.

I was camped at an elevation of 5,250 feet. Across the road to the west sat the Mitchell group of peaks, at around 10,000 feet.

Here was the view of the terrain rising up directly behind the campground, something called the Waterfall Peaks, about 9,500 feet.

I had no snowshoes, and knew there was no chance of making the summit. There wasn’t much else around, except ………  Two and a half miles north along the highway sat a park warden station at Poboktan Creek. Maybe I could hitch a ride there and – oh, I don’t know, just say hello. Would that be weird, on Christmas Day? Might that be considered an intrusion into the family’s celebration? I set out walking, and along the way I spotted a moose – do you see it out there in the deep snow?

No car passed during my hour’s walk, and when I arrived at the nice-looking home that was the ranger station, I was sad to learn that nobody was home. What was I expecting, that they would just invite me in to share in their Christmas? My little bubble burst, or should I say froze? I wrote a little note saying Merry Christmas and that I was staying at Jonas Creek and left it on the door. It seemed a long walk back, and when I arrived at my garbage hut, it was a balmy +4F (-16C). It started to snow again in the afternoon, and since there was nothing else to do, I retreated into my concrete sepulcher. I spent some time reading my diary by headlamp before falling into a fitful sleep.

Day 5

It seemed I lay entombed forever, and when I finally stirred, it was to a frigid -11F (-24C). Enough – I’m out of here!  There was no reason to stay unless I had a death wish – I had a bad feeling about the cold, that maybe it could get worse. My clothing and sleeping bag could only protect me to a certain extent, and I think I was on the ragged edge. These temperatures were colder than usual, and it wasn’t getting any warmer. I loaded my backpack and walked over to the nearby highway with hopes of getting a ride north, and soon. It was my lucky day, and in a mere 45 minutes the first vehicle to come by took pity on me and offered me a lift, albeit an unusual one. I had to sit in a car which was being towed, but at least I was out of the weather, and hey – beggars can’t be choosers.

They dropped me off in the town of Jasper, Alberta, and in spite of its lower elevation, it was -16F (-27C) at noon. Yikes! Luckily for me, one of the fellows from the men’s dorm where I lived back in Vancouver was from here – his family owned the little movie theater. I made my way to a pay phone and called Dwayne, and his family welcomed me with open arms. After a relaxing afternoon and a fine, home-cooked meal, Dwayne and I went to see the movie that was currently playing, “Never a Dull Moment” (free, of course). By the time we turned in, the temperature had dropped to -24F (-31C), and the winds had picked up to 30 miles per hour. That gave a wind chill of -85 degrees F, for those who pay attention to such things. The forecast for tomorrow did not bode well, and I was becoming really concerned about trying to hitch a ride out of here.

Day 6

The next morning, my worst fears were realized. It was -20F (-29C) as I walked out to the highway on the edge of town. Sweet Jesus, it was cold!

After an hour and a half and no ride, I couldn’t stand it any more – I cried uncle and called Dwayne, and he told me to come straight back to his place. It was time for Plan B. That evening, there was a passenger train coming through town, heading west – just the direction I wanted. With most of a day to kill, Dwayne and I retired to the illustrious Astoria Hotel to drink beer, then went back to his house for a few more. I may not have been very good at hitchhiking in extreme cold, but in 1968 I was very good at drinking beer.

By the time I boarded the train in the late afternoon, the temperature had dropped to -26F (-32C). What an effortless, warm ride I had all the way to Kamloops, a major city in the interior of British Columbia – now that was traveling in style. I had a few friends who lived there, and I hoped they might put me up for the night. There was just one problem – it was 1:30 AM by the time I arrived. I called Phil, but he wasn’t home – turns out he was out drinking with friends. His folks were not impressed that I called them at that hour! They said they’d leave a message for him to see when he got back in. Now what? Since it was the middle of the night, and obviously hitching at that hour was impossible, I had to figure out something that would work.

There was a Greyhound leaving in a couple of hours that was going to travel south through the Okanagan Valley, passing through Summerland where my room-mate George’s family lived (that’s where I ended up on Day 1 of this trip). I hoped they’d put up with me for a bit more. Just as I had given up and was going to try to get over to the bus station to buy a ticket, Phil arrived (this was before we had cell phones, and quite frankly I don’t know how the hell we ever got anything done).

Day 7

We slept in until 1:30 in the afternoon, at which time it was -16F (-27C) – damn, that was cold for Kamloops! We hung out with friends, had supper, went to a hockey game (it’s Canada, eh), then went and drank at the beer parlor at the Canadian Inn until the wee hours. Phil gave me a ride the next morning to the bus station for the 5:15 AM departure. The temperature had dropped to an insane -28F (-33C). I didn’t know why it was so cold, but it was unprecedented. Check out how Phil was dressed for the -28F temperature.

At least I had more clothes on.

Day 8

It was a warm, comfortable ride to Summerland, arriving mid-afternoon. George had left for Vancouver, but his folks took me in just the same. They fed me, and we spent the evening playing cards. It was a balmy -8F (-22C) at bedtime – the southern Okanagan Valley should by all rights be expected to have warmer temps than Kamloops. Oh, I almost forgot – as I arrived that afternoon on the bus, I couldn’t help but notice that much of 90-mile-long Okanagan Lake was frozen over.

Day 9

After a hot breakfast, they wished me well. We had listened to the weather forecast on CBC radio, where they said that the temperature in the town of Princeton (I had to hitch right through there) was a mind-boggling -45F (-43C) that morning. This could be a scary trip! George’s dad kindly gave me a ride to the south side of the city of Penticton, maybe a dozen miles, and wished me well.

After a short wait, a fellow driving a 1966 Chevy Beaumont with a 396 engine picked me up and took me the 30 miles to the town of Keremeos.

I soon got another ride to Princeton, where thankfully the temperature had warmed up to a balmy -35F (-34C). It was a bitterly cold experience hitching there, and after quite a wait, a girl picked me up and took me all the way to the city of Abbotsford in the Fraser Valley. This was one of the best rides of the entire trip, about 140 miles.

One last photo to share – this one was at Gibson Pass.

It was still early in the day – I walked a bit, then caught a ride the last few miles to Mission, to my mother’s place. The house was really cold, and she and my sisters were staying with relatives until the landlord got the heating fixed. Can’t say I blame them, as even here it was a frigid zero degrees F (-18C). I called my friend Joe, and we went out drinking beer at the Bellevue Hotel. That night, a foot of snow fell in town.

Three days later, I returned to Vancouver and settled back in to the men’s dorm on campus where I lived. Although I had a few dates with Gloria (remember Gloria, the girl of my dreams, the subject of much idle thought over the past weeks), she soon lost interest in me and moved on.

Remarkably, the cold snap continued for weeks. Even here on the coast, Vancouver experienced record low temps. The ground on campus was a treacherous, icy mess that seemed to take forever to thaw and return to normal.

Even now, 50 years later, it’s a trip I’ll never forget. I can no longer abide the cold, and avoid it at all costs.