I recently put down on paper my first trip to Seymour Arm in 1977 to share with Jim Devine's mother.

Here it is:

    In 1977 I lived and worked in southern California. During that time I was single and working fulltime at an underwater robotics corporation during the week fulltime; and a small fixed based operator, Golden State Flying Club during the weekend. Each Saturday and Sunday I opened the club at 5:30 a.m. and closed at 11:00 p.m. with various duties including: fueling, putting together banners for the banner plane, general maintenance on aircraft, answer phones and make coffee, all in
trade for plane rental time.
     A friend and later to become my husband, Jim worked as a flight instructor there on weekends. With the little spare time I had, I worked on accumulating the hours I needed to obtain my private pilot’s license. Jim volunteered his own time to help me and it was through his skill and belief in my abilities that I gained confidence as a pilot. He had once said that I was a real natural.
    As our relationship grew, he invited me to spend Christmas with him and his son in Canada. I said, sure. Little did I know what awaited me as we packed up his restored Classic 27 window Volkswagen van and picked up his son in Santa Barbara. The first day we drove through the night and the entire next day before we reached the U.S. Canadian border. 
     At the border station, two Mounties unloaded and searched our van for possible drugs and weapons. Once we were exonerated from all suspicion we headed north through the Fraser Canyon, a two-lane highway that was speckled with black ice, mudslides and an endless series of switchbacks. If you are not familiar with the latter, a switchback in the road occurs when you are driving in one direction and then the road quickly turns 180 degrees back in the opposite direction
and then back again making one rather dizzy. Arriving in Kamloops, British Columbia it was early evening and we and the van could go no further. Ryan and I bundled up in blankets inside our hotel room looking out at the rented portable heater blowing directly onto the undercarriage of the van. As the heater slowly melted the large chunks of ice from the brake and clutch petals they crashed to the ground, which delighted little six year old Ryan.
     After a good nights rest, we returned the heater and headed for the local grocery store, “Overwaitie”. What an odd name to call a grocery store, “Over-Weight-E”, I thought. At a meager 110 pounds I was a little self-conscious when I put those wonderful fatty snacks into our shopping cart. Our next stop was for fuel. I should have guessed this wasn’t going to be just another road trip when I saw Jim fill the three five gallon gas cans strapped to the top of the van. Naive and excited about
my first real winter holiday in Canada, I didn’t give it a second thought. 
    Fueled, and glad to be back on the road again we were just forty-five minutes east of Kamloops when we took the Squilax Bridge exit. The Squilax Bridge was then a one lane wooden bridge crossing over the Trans Canadian Highway One and the Little Shuswap River that branched off the lower southwestern part of Shuswap Lake. The road continued up
the lake following along side its’ west bank. The road was covered with patches of ice and flanked by drifts of snow so bright from the reflection of the sun that it was blinding. It was a winter wonderland as we continued over small wooden bridges bringing us safely across swollen creeks cascading into the lake. We continued to travel on the paved road for at least ninety minutes before we reached the entrance of a dirt logging road.
     The signs that flanked the entrance to the road were warnings of logging in process and instructed us to turn our CB’s to a certain channel, and to report our position and direction at each kilometer marker. Next to each sign was a freshly painted sign and in large red letters that read, “Road conditions require tire chains”. We didn’t concern ourselves with setting our CB to the specified channel because it was just two days before Christmas and the road would be abandoned.
This meant that we would be alone for the next 40 kilometers with no sign of a gas station, homes, Burger King or bathroom. I had great confidence in Jim’s driving ability and knowledge of the road ahead of us. I did notice however that he didn’t bother to put on the tire chains. My instincts told me to say, “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to put on the tire chains before we need them?” but didn’t. I considered the fragile ego of a male and all.
     The drive was breathtakingly beautiful. The only sounds we heard were of the tires crunching through the crusty top layer of the snow and an occasional hawk squawking. Trees bowed down by the heavy snow flanked both sides of the road as if welcoming us with a formal entrance into its’ home.  It was picture perfect, and I was certain that this is what Heaven must look like.
    After an hour of following the road through its winding curves, up and down its slopes we approached a long steep grade heading straight up the side of the mountain. I swallowed hard, and silently gave myself this pep talk, “Good grief Debra, you just flew solo down the Colorado River from Twenty-nine Palms into Yuma, Arizona without over shooting the airport and getting lost into Mexico. What happened to your sense of adventure?” The long narrow road was cut into the side of the mountain and had an abrupt edge that if crossed would lead its unknowing occupants plunging several hundred feet into a bottomless ravine.  I looked over at Jim, smiled and pulled Ryan close to me. The van did rather well until we got about one-third of the way up the hill. The tires began to slip which started us to slide sideways and backward towards to the cliff’s edge. Things happened quickly at that point. Jim quickly grabbed a rope that was fortunately lying close to him and jumped from the van and at the same time yelling at me to put my foot on the brake. Jim hurriedly tied one end of rope to the corner of the left front bumper and the other end to a small tree growing out of the side of the bank. As the van continued to slide backward toward the cliff’s edge I started to jump from the van. But as I grabbed Ryan to pull him out, the van stopped. The rope had held, just inches away from the cliff’s edge. As I stepped out with Ryan the road was so slick with ice we could hardly keep our balance. In silence Jim retrieved the tire chains from the back of the van and placed them on the back tires. I
must say, I used full restraint by not saying, “Wouldn’t it of been better if we had placed the chains on before we needed them?” Since the tension in the air was high I opted not to share my little bit of wisdom. Jim suggested that Ryan, myself and his dog Toe, sit in the back of the van to get better contact on the ice as we headed up the mountain. As delirious with laughter as I was in surviving our near death experience; I wondered if I had been hasty in accepting this adventurous invitation with a man I knew very little about.
     As we continued to roll on listening to Rolling Stones, Bobbie Bare and the Eagles our tense muscles began to relax and once again enjoyed the scenery. As we crossed our last bridge into the small community of Seymour Arm we were again welcomed by a long endless road of trees to our left and right and running parallel to them, a worn snowmobile track, leaving us a narrow pathway down the center to travel. As we crested the next hill we turned east at what is known as, four corners.
Half way down the road Jim pulled into an area that had been cleared just large enough to park the van. It was by now ten o’clock at night and I dreamed of slipping into a hot bubbly soul  renewing bath while sipping apricot brandy by candlelight. Dream as I may, it wasn’t going to happen.
     Safely parked in the space that had been cleared for us by a neighbor we jumped out of the van. I stretched and took a long deep breath of the fresh cold air and it filled me with anticipation and excitement about what may lie ahead. I looked for the house but couldn’t see it from the road. Jim said we were going to have to hike in from here. To my relief the driveway was only about a quarter of a mile through the trees. Piece of cake I thought. I was fit and had been sitting for almost three days and glad to finally get some exercise. We loaded our arms with supplies and climbed over the seven-foot embankment
of snow the grader had pushed there and slid down into the undisturbed snow sinking up to our thighs. Unfortunately the previous days had not been warm enough to melt the snow and the nights cold enough to refreeze it into a hard surface to walk upon.  Dredging our way through the snow was fun but quite exhausting for Ryan and I but not for Jim. He was to excited about being home again. As I thought about the next inevitable trip from the van I tried to think of` items that could possibly withstand the freezing temperatures through the night. We left Ryan with kindling in hand to keep the cook stove going as we headed back. At the van we started to get our items ready to pack up the driveway. While unloading, we heard the sound of what we thought was someone using a chain saw. As the sound became louder we soon realized they were snowmobiles coming down the road toward us. As the snowmobiles began to approach us they slowed down and stopped in front of Jim. Before I knew it, one by one they drove their machines up and down the driveway packing down the snow to make us a hard surface to walk on. Packing the snow would make for easy walking; but who cares. I wanted a ride! And a ride I got. With their help it wasn’t long before our supplies were safely in the cabin.
    As we passed around the apricot brandy to warm our spirits, I looked over at Jim. He looked so different to me now, and I had never seen him so happy. It seems rightly so now, because up there he was at his best. There in the home he had built many years ago and successfully meeting the challenges that living in the bush brings with it, he was satisfied. He could be the man he believed he always was. As we stood there with only a flicker of heat coming from the old cook stove, I could see our
breath. As Jim and the three men shared stories, and the brandy warming me from within, I began to relax and examined their rugged exteriors. They were dressed in heavy parkas covered in snow and large chunks of ice woven though their beards from packing down the path for us to the cabin. They each had a mystic about them, and a kind spirit that seemed to ooze from them in abundance. Yes, they did look like three old hippies at first sight, but later learned that they were a craftsmen, musician and entrepreneur. This was their home here in this small community of Seymour Arm and it took someone of character and grit to survive within its beautiful and sometimes unforgiving embrace.
    After our long journey we were safe and tucked warmly away in the beauty, spirit and ruggedness of Seymour Arm. That day had been only a small remnant of what I would experience in the next few days.
    Today, Jim’s home has fallen to ruin from neglect by his son. The craftsman still perfecting his craft, and the musician and entrepreneur has since moved away. Many years have passed since that first visit of mine but I will never forget that first breath of clean air, its’ beauty and also the people who welcome me back no matter how long I may stay away.
    That first day my soul felt a kinship with Seymour Arm and I will forever be drawn to it.

  Debra Devine
  (Click Picture)

Foot Note Dave Milligan:
Debra still owns a home in Seymour Arm at the base of Long Ridge. Debra lost her husband Jim Devine in a plane crash in June 1985.
Jim was a profession pilot and was instrumental in me getting my pilots license and plane in 1974. This story brought back fond memories of both Debra and Jim Devine.

Thanks Debra

Dave