Where in the hell am I?: A history of Kibbee Lake that is almost definitely exaggerated.
So, we are a month in and I've only just realised that I've told you surprisingly little about where I actually I am.
So I figured that it might be helpful to do a series of posts about the Bowron Lake Provincial Park, it's people and their stories.
I know that I've mentioned that I live in a provincial park but it is far from your average park — in fact, it's a bit of a geological wonder, like a completely natural roller coaster of sorts. Essentially the Bowron Lake Provincial Park is actually a circuit of nine lakes, connected either by either water or trails.
All nine lakes combine to create a perfect circle of lakes leaving canoers and kayakers the luxury of finishing their trip right back where they started, on the Bowron Lake (hence the name).
This might not seem like a big deal, but for paddlers, it is a natural wonder – it means no drop-off, ride organising, or charters needed. It's as if someone created this perfect circle of lakes just for this reason.
The entire circuit takes around seven days via canoe and is split between two sides – the Westside and the Eastside. Paddlers start on the Eastside, which consists of four of the longest portages and three Lakes.
The Eastside is also incidentally my side of the circuit - this means that every single week I have to hike the 8 km of portage to get to our cabin.
And yes I know, some of you fitness freaks out there are thinking "8 kms! That's what she's been moaning on and on about for weeks?"
And yes, I love to complain but, for a second, humour me and envision not only hiking 8 kms every 4 days, but doing so with a wheelbarrow full of your food, clothing, sleeping bag, chainsaws, weedwackers, fuel tanks and on one occasion even a propane fridge.
I have essentially volunteered myself for a sick rendition of the Biggest Loser where I am committed to "feeling the weight of my food" by hiking around with it for 16 km each week. And yes I do say 16 because, as it is a Provincial Park, every bit of garbage and plastic that we take in with us has to be taken out with us.
I can honestly say that I can't remember a time when I have felt more like bear bait then when I am pushing a wheelbarrow full of garbage through grizzly territory.
As I said, our Eastside consists of three different lakes with three very different histories — today I'll talk to you about my favourite lake: Kibbee.
Kibbee is the tiniest lake on our circuit but also the one with the best histories.
Our little Kibbee Lake was named after Frank Kibbe, who served as game warden for almost 20 years from 1907 onward before the park was protected land and lived in the area for more than 30 years. It's funny that Kibbee has such a small lake named after him because, from the stories I've heard, the man sounds like a giant.
In one such story, Frank had taken his American friend out grizzly hunting on his legendary trap line. Knowing a bear had been injured somewhere on the line, Frank and the American split up to search. After around 40 minutes or so Frank hears a gunshot and goes running for the American to find that he hadn't shot at a bear, but instead grouse that he thought looked tasty enough to hunt.
Frank basically loses it on the American, telling him it's idiotic to fire your gun at a useless grouse when you're searching for a grizzly when suddenly he turns to see the injured grizzly charging at him from across the canyon.
Frank instinctively fired his pistol at the charging grizzly, watching the bullet hit and appear to have no effect whatsoever -- the bear kept charging. Frank then desperately reaches for the American's rifle, only to realise that he had never reloaded after shooting the grouse.
As Frank was running out of time and options, he did the only thing he thought he could – he faced the bear "bare handed".
The grizzly grabbed tight under Frank's arms and torso, clubbing away at his face and teeth with its massive claws. Frank thought he was a goner and then suddenly it stopped — the bear walked away and died.
The grizzly's adrenaline had finally run out and that first bullet had done its job.
And I'm not kidding, if this was me I would never leave my house again (for god sake, since that grizzly was outside our cabin, I refused to drink water at night because I am terrified to pee at night and run into him on the way to the outhouse), but as I said Frank was a giant and he was out trapping five weeks later.
And as is the case with most pioneer towns and giant men, the stories of Frank Kibbe are numerous and tall. But the amazing thing about it is that you can see signs of him all over the park - this man who seems so legendary it's almost unreal.
The portage trails on the Westside were all built by him - at one point he even installed rail to help make the trip easier (the province removed the rails once the park became a park).
What's even creepier is that Frank buried two of his four children in the park, both of whom died at a young age from some disease that would have been completely curable nowadays. Yes, you read that right, there are Kibbee children graves in Bowron Lake, and if you're lucky enough, you sick little weirdos, I might just tell you where they are.
And while it is entirely creepy to see the headstones in amongst the ancient growth forest, it also feels completely surreal, as if the characters in the stories couldn't actually be dead. You can see their touches on the circuit, hear their legendary battles from the mouths of the locals, and almost feel them on the trails, or in the old trapper cabins all along the circuit.
Even as a prepared to publish this post, a quick Google search revealed that Frank had actually published an illustrated version of this story for the local Cariboo paper (in exchange for cash of course). I've included this courtesy of the website OutdoorLife.com below.
They left their mark on the ancient growth, and tied their lives and evidently their deaths to this amazing part of the world.
This place, surrounded by glacial mountains and massive cedar trees, can make some men feel small, but make others into giants.