Published September 27th, 2023

Earlier this year, I wrote about my travels by car — specifically in my 1955 Chevy — that in 1969 took my friend Ross and me to Vancouver and Vancouver Island, then back home to Ottawa on my own. But that wasn’t our first cross-country sortie. Two years prior we embarked on a Canada Centennial Year excursion by bus and thumb. I’m not clear as to the exact departure date but it was sometime in mid-August 1967. Here’s what I recall:

Ottawa Departure

On a Friday afternoon Ross and I made our way to the Colonial Coach Lines depot in downtown Ottawa and purchased one-way bus tickets to Calgary for the princely sum of $42 each. Once seated we settled in for what would be a lengthy and mostly incident-free trip, with scheduled stops along the way for food and driver/bus changes. After arriving in Calgary three days later, I noted we weren’t far from the Palliser Hotel, one of Cowtown’s classier establishments. I assumed we could obtain a room for about $10/night, but the rate quoted was about four times that amount. Ross and I looked at each other in shock, which was duly noted by the Palliser’s desk clerk, who suggested more modest digs a few blocks away. Sure enough, its $14 nightly fee was more in line with our budget. We secured a room and, suffering from bus-travel-related sleep deprivation, (not to mention painful bus-seat rash) crashed in seconds.

The Second Leg

Somewhat refreshed, the following morning we took a Calgary transit bus to the west-end city limits and stuck out our thumbs. Two rides later got us as far as the Trans-Canada Highway’s Lake Louise turnoff, where we languished along with several other hitchers until well past midnight. While standing along the darkened highway our biggest fear was encountering one of Banff National Park’s grizzly bears who would consider us his late-night snack. At long last we snagged short westbound ride to nearby Golden, B.C., or at least to the outskirts of the town. Spying the lights of Golden in the distance, we thought we’d take a shortcut off the winding highway and proceeded down a steep embankment not far from where we’d been let off. Uh, big mistake. The ensuing sliding and slithering left us and our belongings covered in sand, gravel and muddy dirt. We laughed as we examined each other’s decrepit-looking condition, but our hysterics quickly turned into oath-mutterings when we realized that we were much farther away from the main highway where we had to be to snag another westbound ride.

Back on the Bus

Following at least a two-mile hike, we made it back at the Trans-Canada Highway close to town. While purchasing snacks at a nearby all-night gas station the attendant advised us the RCMP were picking up all the able-bodied hitchhikers they could find, then depositing them at a coordination centre to be pressed into service with one of the area’s fire-fighting brigades. They required people to help dig the fire lines that were intended to slow the advancing flames in the region. At the time I wondered as to the truthfulness of this story, but much later I would learn that the son of family friends who had a summer job assisting a survey crew in the area instead wound-up fighting forest fires. Not wishing to spend the rest of our vacation, or possibly beyond, in that capacity we hurriedly walked to the Greyhound bus depot, which was conveniently located close by. By dawn’s early light we were seated inside a Vancouver-bound bus and resumed our journey.

Kamloops in 1967. Photo by Bonnie Woods-Bauer

The Heat of the Moment

Once aboard Ross and I dozed on and off, but we groggily came to a few hours later when the Greyhound arrived in Kamloops. By noon the weather had become oppressively warm, which was when we discovered the bus’s air conditioning wasn’t functioning. Sitting behind us were two fellow travellers, roughly our age, from England who were spending the summer touring North America on the cheap. We all complained about the heat, which was worsening as we descended into the inferno that is the Fraser Canyon in summer. At some point the temperature exceeded 100 degrees F outside and the bus’s interior was like a convection oven. Try as we might, Ross and I plus our British buddies failed to pry open the sliding windows beside us that seemed permanently shut. That is until a small child seated with her mother across from our seats expelled the contents of her stomach onto the floor. That incident prompted us to put extreme — and ultimately successful — efforts into forcing the windows open, which introduced hot, but at least less odorous air in our immediate vicinity.

West Coast Arrival

Upon reaching Vancouver, our plan was to spend a few days with Ross’s relatives before heading to Victoria for a visit with my grandmother. By now the combination of cool rocky- mountain air, blistering B.C. interior heat plus sleep deprivation was affecting my well-being. Upon reaching Ross’s Aunt Margaret and Uncle Jock’s Vancouver home (Ross referred to him as “Uncle Strap” but not to his face), I headed to the basement bed that was kindly offered beside the washer and dryer for some desperately needed rest. Meanwhile Ross decided he would avail himself of the washing machine to decontaminate his soiled wardrobe. I’d scarcely entered the Land of Nod when Ross urgently requested my assistance. Somehow, he’d caused the water from the washing machine to drain onto the basement floor, resulting in a two-three-inch pool beside and beneath my cot. Neither I nor Ross’s aunt seemed pleased (especially the latter), but eventually we managed to mop things up. My attempt to return to a resting state was further thwarted by our hosts’ Siamese cat that howled incessantly through the night from its perch somewhere in the basement rafters.

Vancouver Visitation and Confrontation

For the next couple of days, Ross’s aunt and uncle drove us around the West Coast city and environs. We also met up with another aunt and uncle plus cousins and grandmother. At some point we were invited to join one of the cousins and her husband (I’ll call him Jim) to Boundary Bay beach near Vancouver, a most pleasant spot along the border with Washington state with plenty of sand and relatively warm Pacific waters. Following a few hours of R & R, we started back along the main highway. At some point en route we were cut off by another driver, which put Jim into full-on meltdown mode. Eyes glaring straight ahead, he immediately began his pursuit of the errant driver and, despite his wife’s protestations, would not be dissuaded. Seated in the back seat, Ross and I said nothing, but our look of alarm said it all. Eventually the chase subject pulled into a driveway and began to exit his vehicle. At the same time Jim angrily sprung from behind the wheel and marched in his direction with Ross trailing behind. Strong language between the two drivers ensued followed by a threatening move by Jim who appeared ready to strike the first blow. At that point fearless Ross acting as peacekeeper moved between the two combatants and urged Jim to back away, which fortunately for all concerned, he complied. The rest of the ride back to Vancouver was a subdued one. If it hadn’t been for Ross’s intervention no doubt things could have become downright ugly.

Victoria

At week’s end we boarded a bus to Victoria, which included a two-hour ferry ride from Tsawwassen south of Vancouver across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Schwartz Bay on Vancouver Island located just north of the city. One city bus ride later we arrived at my grandmother’s stucco bungalow in the village of Oak Bay that’s situated within the city. I had been visiting her and my grandfather ever since I was six-week-old babe in arms, but my earliest recollection was as a six-year-old in 1955 when our family drove from our Calgary home to Victoria in our tiny battleship-grey Austin A40. My grandma welcomed Ross and me warmly and treated us to several home-cooked meals and scrumptious baked goods. Those few days in laid-back Victoria proved a pleasant — and much appreciated — respite for both of us. Little did we know the craziness that lay ahead when returning to Ottawa.

Heading Home

Before we knew it the holiday was over, and it was time for us to head home. Still wary of hitchhiking through British Columbia, we bused it from Vancouver to Calgary, booked another night in our now-familiar hotel and departed the next morning by city bus to the Trans- Canada Highway at eastern edge of the city. Our first pickup was in a 1957 Plymouth piloted by a guy our age who was accompanied by at least six other passengers. The Plymouth’s rear door opened and Ross and I plus our baggage found ourselves jammed inside and literally atop four other riders. Some 20 miles later we arrived at the turnoff for Chestermere Lake, which is actually a man-made reservoir built about 140 years ago by the Canadian Pacific Railway. Upon disembarking from our cramped and crowded confines I apologized to the driver for flattening a package of hot dog buns. He simply shrugged, grabbed the mangled package, flung it into a nearby ditch and wished us luck with our travels.

The Scofflaw

In short order our outstretched thumbs, plus our pleading looks netted us our next transitory segment. Our driver, a 23-year-old Calgarian, was bound for Toronto in his 1955 Ford sedan that, with a thick haze of blue smoke bellowing out the exhaust pipe, had clearly seen better days. His backstory was an intriguing one. That Sunday morning, he had decided to skip his Monday appointment at the Calgary law courts, where he was to be sentenced for some unspoken misdemeanor. His plan was to hang out in Toronto with his friend “Dieter” for a while until things cooled down. He was leaving behind a girlfriend whose photo was attached to the inside of the Ford’s sun visor. Every so often he would lower the visor and blow kisses at her image while proclaiming his undying love and affection. Also, every so often, he would stop at the side of the road, grab a quart or two of motor oil from the trunk and top up the engine’s crankcase. Nine hours, 470 miles and 16 quarts of oil later we arrived at the outskirts of Regina, Saskatchewan for fuel, food and more oil.

The Scofflaw and the AWOL

At the pit stop, our justice-avoiding driver and ourselves were consuming late-night sustenance at the gas-station’s snack bar when a young guy approached our table. Somehow (?) he had learned we were heading east and asked if him and his girlfriend could catch a lift with us. He also offered to chip in for the gas, which was something Ross and I had avoided doing (To be fair we were never asked, but yes, we should have donated a few shekels to the cause.). Unsmiling, our driver looked up at me, which I presumed indicated our transportation mode was history. To my relief, instead he invited the couple to join us. And the reason for their wanderings? The male passenger decided he’d had his fill of army life and wished to return to his parents’ home in southern Ontario. Only problem was, he’d neglected to inform his superiors of his decision, which meant he was now absent without leave, or AWOL in military-speak. The duo climbed in the old Ford beside our driver, leaving Ross and me to languish in the back seat. After driving all night, by early morning we’d reached the outskirts of Winnipeg. During the night Ross and I managed some shuteye, but by sunrise we were mostly awake. That’s when all four of us passengers had our eyes fixed on the driver, who would occasionally nod off, but refused offers from myself and the army escapee to take the wheel (Ross had yet to acquire his driver’s license). Only persistent admonishments and mild rib poking kept him on course. Near Winnipeg, errant army guy mentioned he knew of a nearby park where we could rest up. At this point Ross and I decided to forego the time out and we proffered our goodbyes to the trio. A couple of city bus transfers later found us on Monday morning just east of Winnipeg, where we resumed our thumbs-out stances.

Andy Patterson

Following two brief rides we scored the hitchhiking jackpot! A two-tone 1964 Mercury Montclair sedan rolled past us before drifting onto the shoulder a few yards ahead. Like hungry wolves we ran for the Merc and piled in back. We hadn’t travelled far when our chauffeur, 57-year-old Andy Patterson, glanced in the rear-view mirror and asked if either of us possessed a driver’s license. Answering in the affirmative, Andy ordered me to take the wheel and commanded Ross to move up to the front passenger seat. It turns out our new friend had recently completed a week-long bender at a downtown Winnipeg hotel along with his heavy-equipment-operating buddies. That morning he’d arrived home to discover his wife had flown to Montreal to visit friends and to take the city’s Expo ’67. Upon phoning her, she demanded Andy meet here there on the double. In his post-inebriate state, Andy decided not to fly to Montreal but instead chose to drive there. I had only gone a short distance when Andy pointed to an exit leading to a nearby town and had me stop at a main-street tavern, leaving Ross and me to wait in the car. Seems he was unable to quit imbibing cold turkey and required a belt or two to steady himself. These unplanned small-town stopovers continued for a few more occasions before Andy finally passed out for a time in the back seat. During one notable stop that day, unlicensed Ross insisted on driving for a bit, which concerned me (Andy didn’t seem to care), but other than a close call while attempting to overtake another car he did okay.

The Next Leg and Home

After reaching the Northern Ontario town of Thunder Bay at around 11:00 pm Andy requested we stop for the night and directed me to a nearby motel. Ross and I got our own room and Andy got one or himself. By now seriously sleep-deprived, we assumed that our still hung-over companion would be out cold for several hours. Wrong again. At 3:00 a.m. sharp we received a wake-up knock at the door and our presence was requested at the car. I was also again requested to drive. The air was chilly and damp as we departed the motor court and headed back onto Highway 17 eastward toward Sault Ste Marie for another 400-plus-mile jaunt. Me and the Merc made pretty good time and about six hours later we arrived at The Sault for gas and breakfast. I was pretty much spent, but Andy, who by now was in improved condition, took over and piloted us the rest of the way to Ottawa. By the time we’d reached the east end of the city that evening, I pointed out a gas station that was an easy 15-minute walk to my home (and close to Ross’s place as well). Before departing for Montreal to face what I assumed would be his spouse’s wrath, Andy thanked us for the companionship and thanked me for handling much of the driving chores.

Epilogue

In the ensuing years, whenever Ross and I would meet up (not often enough, in my estimation) we would regale ourselves and other close friends about our shared escapades. Along with a cross-Canada road trip by car two years later, this first one cemented the kind of lasting memory that defined our youthful, devil-may-care exuberance. Our compatibility, especially during times of stress that usually accompany such adventures, was quite simply incomparable. Ross, who sadly passed away recently, was my friend, buddy and compatriot. To quote the Dionne Warwick ballad:

Keep smilin', keep shinin'
Knowing you can always count on me for sure
That's what friends are for
For good times and bad times
I'll be on your side forever more
That's what friends are for

A Cross-Canada Adventure by Bus & Thumb in 1967