Home
Gumption & Grit: Women of the Cariboo Chilcotin (Caitlin $24.95)
Edited by Sage Birchwater, the life stories of thirty-seven women in Gumption & Grit: Women of the Cariboo Chilcotin (Caitlin $24.95), are an eye-opener to conditions that were long considered 'normal' in decades when a horse was often the only mode of transport.
Here follows an edited excerpt from one memoir by Gerry Bracewell, born in Half-Way Lake, Alberta in 1922.
From 1950 onwards, when she wasn't guiding, she was a fully capable rancher, building cabins, roping, branding and castrating calves alone in the range corral.
She broke her own horses, built a twenty-four-room log lodge and found time for motherhood, raising four sons.
My first birthing experience turned out to be impossible. It was January, so the stage had quit running. There were no snow ploughs. We had only our team and sleigh to get me thirty-seven kilometres out to Tatla Lake where I was to meet with a doctor. A neighbour had ridden on horseback to the only phone, a party line, relayed halfway to Williams Lake by Alexis Creek, to get a doctor for me. The doctor had to come with Bill Sharp, the village police officer in Williams Lake, by car, often shovelling through drifts along the 230 kilometres of Chilcotin Road.
When one of our team became exhausted from pulling the sleigh through eighteen inches of snow, Mr. Moore (the grandpa-to-be), borrowed a neighbour's horse. Our other horse, a mean-spirited ex-rodeo bronc named Blackoby, after Mr. Moore's banker, soldiered on. He won much praise from all of us. We arrived at sundown in Tatla Lake ahead of the doctor.
The hospitable Graham family put me into the master bedroom off the kitchen. I lapsed into sleep several times, finally aroused by much hustle and bustle when the doctor arrived. He was washing his hands at the bedroom sink. They had forgotten the rubber gloves. A washcloth was draped over my face and ether poured onto it. I zonked out.
A wild dream, all in technicolour, took over.... Then I heard a baby cry.
I was awakened to see a light bulb spinning crazily overhead. As it slowed and steadied, I saw Dr. Mackenzie splinting my baby's leg. My son was delivered alive after seventy-four hours of hopeless labour. His right femur had to be broken mid-thigh to deliver him feet-first. It was a partial breach.
Hodgson's stage wasn't due to come through for two weeks. Within two days I developed a devastating fever with chills, which I fought with every fibre of my being. These were the days before antibiotics. I couldn't die now, I had a baby to care for. Every day my baby's splints worked down and had to be reset by the wonderful Graham family.
Hodgson's stage finally arrived and took me into the Williams Lake Hospital. My baby was admitted, but not me.
Dr. Pump was the only resident doctor, but he was a good one. He re-broke my baby's leg, taped small square blocks onto the soles of his feet and screwed cup hooks into the blocks. Long strings were fastened to the hooks, with the other ends holding weights dangling off the end of the crib. The baby lay on his back with both feet up at a right angle to his body. In a month I would be allowed to take him home.
Hodgson's stage returned us to Tatla Lake, where our team, sleigh, and a driver awaited us. It was a long, cold thirty-seven kilometres, mostly in the dark, on February 24, 1944. Within a mile of the ranch, we had to abandon the sleigh and my box of apples because the road was too icy for the horses. The teamster took them up onto brushy hillsides to find safe footing. I carried my baby in the freezing dark over that icy road, praying that we would not fall. The lamp in the window was a halo of gold. Grandpa Moore was waiting up for us. He lovingly accepted his grandson from my weary arms.
The war soon ended. My husband returned to ranching and a baby brother for Marty was born in June. But this idyllic family life was not to be. Interference separated us. My husband left to aid his mother with her ranch, and she found him another soul mate. Eventually he filed for divorce....
Grandpa was a Class A guide, which permitted him to take hunting clients after whatever big game was in season. Whenever I could find a neighbour lady to watch over my boys for the day, I'd go along to learn the business....
Grandpa had apprenticed as a guide outfitter with Ralph Edwards of Lonesome Lake. With spring bear hunting and fall moose, mule deer, and bear hunting, he needed an assistant guide.... One day Grandpa Moore asked, "So how about it? I want to quit.";
Advertising consisted of writing thousands of letters. There were no phones back then.... Thinking I was on the right track, I put an expensive ad into Outdoor Life magazine, and received a dozen letters from US hunters. The letters I typed and mailed listed animals available, dates, rates, maps, and a list of suggested clothing. I also stated that I was a woman guide outfitter. Bad idea. Not one answered. From then on, letters to Gerry Bracewell were addressed to me, "Dear Sir.";
On arrival, my guests accepted the fact that their guide outfitter was a woman.... After five years of me learning the business, Grandpa said, "You can take over. I'm retiring.";
978-1894759373
[BCBW 2010]
Here follows an edited excerpt from one memoir by Gerry Bracewell, born in Half-Way Lake, Alberta in 1922.
From 1950 onwards, when she wasn't guiding, she was a fully capable rancher, building cabins, roping, branding and castrating calves alone in the range corral.
She broke her own horses, built a twenty-four-room log lodge and found time for motherhood, raising four sons.
My first birthing experience turned out to be impossible. It was January, so the stage had quit running. There were no snow ploughs. We had only our team and sleigh to get me thirty-seven kilometres out to Tatla Lake where I was to meet with a doctor. A neighbour had ridden on horseback to the only phone, a party line, relayed halfway to Williams Lake by Alexis Creek, to get a doctor for me. The doctor had to come with Bill Sharp, the village police officer in Williams Lake, by car, often shovelling through drifts along the 230 kilometres of Chilcotin Road.
When one of our team became exhausted from pulling the sleigh through eighteen inches of snow, Mr. Moore (the grandpa-to-be), borrowed a neighbour's horse. Our other horse, a mean-spirited ex-rodeo bronc named Blackoby, after Mr. Moore's banker, soldiered on. He won much praise from all of us. We arrived at sundown in Tatla Lake ahead of the doctor.
The hospitable Graham family put me into the master bedroom off the kitchen. I lapsed into sleep several times, finally aroused by much hustle and bustle when the doctor arrived. He was washing his hands at the bedroom sink. They had forgotten the rubber gloves. A washcloth was draped over my face and ether poured onto it. I zonked out.
A wild dream, all in technicolour, took over.... Then I heard a baby cry.
I was awakened to see a light bulb spinning crazily overhead. As it slowed and steadied, I saw Dr. Mackenzie splinting my baby's leg. My son was delivered alive after seventy-four hours of hopeless labour. His right femur had to be broken mid-thigh to deliver him feet-first. It was a partial breach.
Hodgson's stage wasn't due to come through for two weeks. Within two days I developed a devastating fever with chills, which I fought with every fibre of my being. These were the days before antibiotics. I couldn't die now, I had a baby to care for. Every day my baby's splints worked down and had to be reset by the wonderful Graham family.
Hodgson's stage finally arrived and took me into the Williams Lake Hospital. My baby was admitted, but not me.
Dr. Pump was the only resident doctor, but he was a good one. He re-broke my baby's leg, taped small square blocks onto the soles of his feet and screwed cup hooks into the blocks. Long strings were fastened to the hooks, with the other ends holding weights dangling off the end of the crib. The baby lay on his back with both feet up at a right angle to his body. In a month I would be allowed to take him home.
Hodgson's stage returned us to Tatla Lake, where our team, sleigh, and a driver awaited us. It was a long, cold thirty-seven kilometres, mostly in the dark, on February 24, 1944. Within a mile of the ranch, we had to abandon the sleigh and my box of apples because the road was too icy for the horses. The teamster took them up onto brushy hillsides to find safe footing. I carried my baby in the freezing dark over that icy road, praying that we would not fall. The lamp in the window was a halo of gold. Grandpa Moore was waiting up for us. He lovingly accepted his grandson from my weary arms.
The war soon ended. My husband returned to ranching and a baby brother for Marty was born in June. But this idyllic family life was not to be. Interference separated us. My husband left to aid his mother with her ranch, and she found him another soul mate. Eventually he filed for divorce....
Grandpa was a Class A guide, which permitted him to take hunting clients after whatever big game was in season. Whenever I could find a neighbour lady to watch over my boys for the day, I'd go along to learn the business....
Grandpa had apprenticed as a guide outfitter with Ralph Edwards of Lonesome Lake. With spring bear hunting and fall moose, mule deer, and bear hunting, he needed an assistant guide.... One day Grandpa Moore asked, "So how about it? I want to quit.";
Advertising consisted of writing thousands of letters. There were no phones back then.... Thinking I was on the right track, I put an expensive ad into Outdoor Life magazine, and received a dozen letters from US hunters. The letters I typed and mailed listed animals available, dates, rates, maps, and a list of suggested clothing. I also stated that I was a woman guide outfitter. Bad idea. Not one answered. From then on, letters to Gerry Bracewell were addressed to me, "Dear Sir.";
On arrival, my guests accepted the fact that their guide outfitter was a woman.... After five years of me learning the business, Grandpa said, "You can take over. I'm retiring.";
978-1894759373
[BCBW 2010]
Submitted on March 3, 2010 in By David.
