Drugstore Cowgirl: Adventures in the Cariboo-Chilcotin

By Patricia Joy MacKay

In 1964, Patricia MacKay immigrated to Canada from England in search of the wild-open lands and cowboy culture that captivated her as a child. In the 1960s, the Wild West was still alive and kicking in the Cariboo-Chilcotin, although it had been tamed—a little. Old-time hospitality and helping anyone in need was the acknowledged way of life.

Pat learned the Cariboo-Chilcotin way of life first hand by spending her summers working on guest ranches and finding other jobs to keep her occupied during the winter. From learning how to cook on the job to kitchen disasters and successes, roundups, branding, square dances and falling in love, she slowly gained acceptance into the tight-knit communities of BC’s Interior.

Ranching meant long hours, hard work, and a lifestyle all its own. Entertainment was homemade. There were rodeos, dances, and music around campfires in the summer and ice hockey, tobogganing, and parties in the winter. Sadly, that way of life is gradually disappearing, but this book relives the way things were between 1964 and 1976; it tells of a unique brand of people from a variety of backgrounds who made this part of the west their home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heritage House
• Release date: Sep 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781927527382

Patricia Joy MacKay

Patricia Joy MacKay was born in England and immigrated to Canada in April 1964. Despite having no experience in the culinary arts when she arrived, she worked as a cook on guest ranches in the Cariboo for four summers, where she discovered that working cowboys and open spaces really did still exist. Pat lived and worked in the Cariboo-Chilcotin until 1989, when she moved to the Sunshine Coast and began operating a small farm with her partner. In April of 2012, she moved back home to Williams Lake.

Book preview

Drugstore Cowgirl

PATRICIA JOY MACKAY

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DRUGSTORE

COWGIRL

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ADVENTURES IN THE

CARIBOO-CHILCOTIN

This book is dedicated to the people of the Cariboo–Chilcotin. Thank you for welcoming me into your homes and for sharing your friendship and laughter over the years. I hold you all in my heart.

Introduction

PART ONE

one —— The Beginning

two —— Learning the Ropes

three —— Cooking and Chaos

four —— Moving On

five —— New Pastures

PART TWO

six —— Here to Stay

seven —— Trying to Fit In

eight —— A Season of Events

nine —— One More Time

PART THREE

ten —— Lee’s Corner

eleven —— The Best Laid Plans

twelve —— Keeping Busy

thirteen —— A Learning Experience

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

I Wanna Be a Cowgirl

I wanted to be a cowgirl real bad,

To wear fancy boots and ride,

Have an ornate beaded hatband,

And a gun strapped to my side.

I planned to learn to shoot good and straight,

And worked real hard on my draw,

But missed the target every shot,

So I didn’t try no more.

Another skill that I failed to learn

Was how to throw a lasso,

So I couldn’t rope a calf real quick,

Just like all the cowboys do.

Attempts at riding were not a success,

’Cause horses filled me with dread.

I never became a cowgirl,

So married a cowboy instead.

At the age of ten, while living in England, I saw my first western at the Saturday morning picture show and was transported to a country where cowboys rode horses across a land that apparently stretched on forever. With guns flashing, they fought the bad and saved the good while managing to drive herds of cattle across open plains and mountain ranges. There and then I vowed to discover whether cowboys still rode through grasslands and alpine passes and whether such a vast country really existed.

In the spring of 1964, I and two co-worker friends of mine, Margaret and Dallas, set sail for Canada. Although we all enjoyed working at the BBC, we were restless and ready for a change. Besides, it was time for me to search for the country I had first seen in the movies of long ago.

Upon arriving in Vancouver, Margaret and Dallas decided to remain in the city, but I answered an advertisement in the Vancouver Sun for an assistant cook on a guest ranch in the Cariboo. I couldn’t cook, but the Flying U Guest Ranch hired me anyway, and so began my love affair with the people, the country, and the history of the Cariboo–Chilcotin.

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PART ONE

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70 Mile House, called the driver, climbing out to retrieve my suitcase from the belly of the vehicle.

It was late afternoon when the Greyhound bus pulled up at a store and garage at the side of the road. They looked small and lost with no other habitation in sight.

I was the only passenger to exit the bus. A short, slim cowboy who appeared to be in his early fifties came toward me, smiling and holding out a calloused hand.

You must be our new cook. Welcome to the Cariboo.

I shook the firm hand he offered. I’m just the helper, the assistant.

Whatever. My wife takes care of the staffing, so you’ll get it sorted out between you. I’m Bert Gammie, owner of the Flying U. He swung my overloaded suitcase into the back of a dusty red car.

We’re fourteen miles in from here, he continued. Takes about half an hour or so, as the road is unpaved and a bit rough in places.

He wasn’t kidding. We bounced across ruts and potholes that jarred bones and teeth; I found myself hanging on to the edge of the seat—the alternative to hitting the roof or landing on the floor. After fifteen minutes of driving through what appeared to be a never-ending forest of Jack pine and fir, the countryside opened up to expose a large lake the colour of emeralds.

Green Lake, said Mr. Gammie, jerking his head to the right. He was unable to point because his hands were gripping the steering wheel as he fought to persuade the car to stay on the road, which was now running high above the water. The ranch is down there a bit, he continued with a nod of his head in the general direction we were travelling. We have a beach and a few boats. Some of our guests like to have a dip after riding. Others enjoy trying their luck at fishing. If they catch anything, they expect the cook to serve it at supper. Hope you’re okay with that?

So long as they clean it first, I said, not having a clue how to gut or clean—or cook—a fish.

We passed several bunches of cattle grazing placidly along the side of the road, most with young calves at their side. The mature animals completely ignored the car, but some of the calves jumped and skipped around, showing an appalling lack of road sense.

Those are some of ours, said Mr. Gammie.

How can you tell?

They have our brand on their hip.

Don’t they ever get lost or run over?

Very seldom. The boys check them every once in a while and we have roundup in the fall. The cattle have to be off the open range for the winter months. That’s to give the grass recovery time in readiness for next year’s grazing. We turn them out again in May after calving and branding.

While I digested this information, we drew up to a large log-built ranch house with a covered porch that ran the entire length of the building. Several guest cabins, each with its own small porch, were set in a row on a grassy slope that stretched down to the lake.

I followed Mr. Call me Bert Gammie through a screen door that led straight into the kitchen. As this was to be my domain for the next four months, I inspected it with interest. A large, well-scrubbed wooden table sat crossways a few feet in from the door. Behind it and to the left was the cooking area. Two large black-and-silver-trimmed propane stoves faced the door where Bert and I were still standing. A shelf that ran above the stoves stored plates and kept them warm, and black cast iron frying pans hung from sturdy nails that had been hammered into the logs. Next to the stoves was a commercial-sized grill. A white metal table served as a worktop, and several shelves held mixing bowls and baking paraphernalia plus a varied collection of well-thumbed cookbooks. The floor was covered with well-worn linoleum that had faded over the years from red to a dusty pink. The staff dining room, which held a deep freeze and commercial refrigerator, was separated from the kitchen by a rough plywood divider.

A set of double doors led from the kitchen into the guest dining and sitting area. Two long wooden tables, each capable of seating up to forty people, dominated one half of the room. On the opposite side several mismatched easy chairs formed a half-circle around an unlit wood heater, and elongated windows let in plenty of light.

This is my wife, Ruth, said Bert, leading me toward a grey-haired woman who looked older than she probably was. As she didn’t offer to shake hands, neither did I. Mrs. Gammie wore an oversized shirt that was missing a few of its buttons and a pair of dun-coloured, shapeless trousers that exposed a chunky portion of pasty leg. I couldn’t help wondering how she and the immaculate Bert had ever got together. Bert excused himself, having done his duty by delivering me into her care.

This is Marg, our daughter-in-law, she said as a woman of about twenty-six stood up from one of the chairs. Marg was tall and slim—willowy—with almost-black hair and violet eyes. She offered me a ready smile as we were introduced.

At the moment we have fifteen guests, and you’ll meet them and the staff at supper. They’re all out riding but will be back in time for the meal, which is served at six sharp. Marg and I have been doing the cooking along with our regular chores, so you can imagine how relieved we are to have you here. Mrs. Gammie sounded pleasant enough, but there was something about her that made me feel vaguely uncomfortable. Marg will show you to your cabin and you and I’ll have a chat after supper. Having dismissed us, she turned her attention back to setting the tables.

As bidden, Marg took me across the dirt yard to a log cabin set between the kitchen and the boys’ bunkhouse. Beyond stood a huge red barn, and across from it were several corrals. I was left to unpack. Someone had put my suitcase in one of the rooms—probably Mr. Gammie—and when I was alone I examined my quarters.

Sheets of plywood divided the cabin into four rooms, two single and two double. My suitcase had been placed in one of the single rooms, and the other showed signs of occupation. Both double rooms appeared uninhabited. The sitting area contained two chairs, a couch, and a coffee table. A mirror, so mottled with age it was practically useless, hung from a nail on one of the log walls. Vanity was obviously not encouraged here.

I returned to my cubicle and began unpacking. There was no closet, but boxes nailed to the walls worked well for storing sweaters and jeans. An upended orange crate did duty as a bedside table, and a wide wooden plank resting on two more crates added extra storage space. It was a good thing my parents couldn’t see me now. They would have been horrified at the conditions their firstborn would be living in for the next few months: everything was shabby and rough. I loved it.

As I finished unpacking and making up the bed, the cabin door opened and a girl in her early twenties came rushing in. Her face was flushed and she was covered in dust.

Fell off my damn horse, she said, continuing on to the single room next to mine. Are you the new cook?

Just the helper. I got here about an hour ago.

I’m Rosalyn—better known as Roz. If you want to hang on for a minute, I’ll walk over to the dining room with you. After changing and pulling a comb through her tangled hair, which was so pale it was almost white, she secured it into two bunches with elastic bands. They stuck out on either side of her head, giving her the appearance of a schoolgirl, but it suited her. As we walked over to the main building, Roz told me she was from Australia.

I wanted to travel before settling down—you know, getting married, having kids—so here I am at the Flying U, just two weeks after arriving in Canada.

Do you like it here?

Yeah, sure. Bert’s a real nice guy, but Mrs. Gammie can be hard to get along with at times.

Doesn’t anyone ever call her Ruth?

Only Marg. I tried it once, but she made it clear that she was not impressed. Sometimes I’m tempted to do it, though, just to bug her!

When we entered the lodge, a girl in her early teens was already sitting at the table and patted the bench near her invitingly. Roz introduced us. This is Lynn, who’s always first in the dining room as she’s constantly hungry. She’s Bert and Mrs. Gammie’s youngest and she’s also spoiled rotten, but we still love her.

Lynn was short and on the chubby side, with a bright smile and infectious laugh. You’ll be working with Donna. She’s my sister, you know.

We were interrupted by two young cowboys who came sauntering in. That’s Perry and Simon, said Roz. They’re the wranglers and bring the horses in from the pasture to the corral first thing. After breakfast they saddle them up, ready for the morning’s trail ride.

The cowboys settled onto the bench across from us; they were followed by a grey-haired, bowlegged older man who looked to be in his late sixties. Here comes Jake, said Roz. He’s head cowboy. Then the guests began to arrive. There was a good mixture of singles, couples, and families. Some of the young girls pushed and shoved one another in friendly competition to secure a seat next to their favourite cowboy. I wondered why Donna hadn’t put in an appearance, but as no one else commented on her absence, neither did I. After putting several steaming platters of mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables, thick slices of beef, and jugs of gravy on the table, Mrs. Gammie took her place opposite Bert, who sat at the head. Marg squeezed in beside her husband, a ginger-haired man Lynn introduced as her brother George.

This is Pat, our newest staff member, announced Mrs. Gammie as everyone began helping themselves to the various dishes. She’s here to help Donna in the kitchen. I was aware of the curious glances being sent my way but concentrated on the food in front of me. I was hungry, as it had been six hours since lunch. I had hoped for at least a cup of tea and a cookie on my arrival, but none had been offered and I hadn’t liked to ask. Dessert was freshly baked apple pie and ice cream, accompanied by tea and coffee. How was I ever going to learn how to produce food like this? I’d never made pastry in my life and had no previous experience of cooking a roast, especially one that appeared to be the complete leg of some unfortunate cow.

After you’ve helped Marg and Roz clean up, come over to the office, said Mrs. Gammie on her way out of the dining room. I’ll expect you within half an hour. That didn’t give much time to wash and dry dishes, set the table for breakfast, and sweep the floor.

Go on, said Marg after twenty minutes or so. Roz and I’ll finish here. Ruth doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and you don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with her.

Mrs. Gammie got straight down to business. We pay good wages and expect our workers to earn them. There’ll be no days off until we’re fully staffed, then you’ll have one day a week. As you’re the cook’s helper, you’ll get $125 a month, plus room and board. Good thing I was here for the experience and not to make a fortune. Then I received an unpleasant piece of news. My eldest daughter, Donna, has been delayed in Vancouver. She won’t be here for two or three days. However, I’m sure you’ll be able to manage on your own for that short amount of time.

Panic set in. I had been hoping to learn some basic cooking skills while watching and working with someone who knew what she was doing. Now my lack of experience was about to be exposed and I had visions of being sent back to the city on the next bus. It had probably been a mistake to unpack.

Mrs. Gammie’s voice broke into my thoughts. Meals are to be served on time and the food kept plain and simple. We don’t go in for exotic dishes, and the guests don’t expect it.

Thank God. At this point, I doubted my ability to even produce plain and simple.

Your day in the kitchen begins at six. Breakfast for the staff is seven sharp; the guests come in between eight and nine. Lunch is at noon, the evening meal at six. Do you have an alarm clock? I nodded. Then there’s no reason for you to be late.

I was dismissed.

That night as I lay in bed, it was hard to believe that only twenty-four hours earlier I had been sleeping in a motel off busy Kingsway Avenue in Vancouver. Now I was in a rough log cabin, miles from civilization, on a real ranch in the real west. I wouldn’t have traded places with anyone, in spite of what I feared the morning might bring. I fell asleep to the soft rustle of leaves dancing in the night wind.

I woke to the bleating of sheep as they wandered around on the outside porch, their hooves tapping out a rhythm on the wooden boards. It was five in the morning, for goodness sake. And what the hell were sheep doing on a cattle ranch anyway? I disappeared under the blankets in a vain attempt to blot out the sounds of a country morning coming to life. At quarter to six, my alarm rang and my first day of working on a ranch began.

It was a relief to find Marg instead of Mrs. Gammie waiting in the kitchen. Thought you could do with some help as Donna’s not here and this is your first day. Or would you rather I left you to it?

No! I’d really like you to stay. I hoped I didn’t sound too desperate.

Let’s make a simple breakfast, then. Sort of ease you into the routine. How about French toast and bacon? she suggested.

I nodded, remembering my mother making French toast. She had grilled the bread on one side and buttered the other. Just as we were setting out the bacon, bread, milk, and eggs on the table, Marg was called away.

Get the bacon on the grill, then start the toast. I shouldn’t be too long. She was gone.

The grill was already heated, and once the bacon started to sizzle, I turned my attention to the long loaves of sliced bread and wondered what the eggs and milk were for. Maybe Marg had decided to serve scrambled eggs with the French toast. When she returned, the bacon was keeping warm in the oven, snug in a covered pan and ready to serve. That part was good.

The bread part wasn’t.

Oh God, what’s this? What have you done to the bread? She was looking at several stacks of my French toast. Get it out of sight before Ruth comes in. We stuffed the ruined bread into an old flour sack and hid it behind the stove for disposal at the first opportunity. Then Marg taught me how to make French toast—Canadian style. So simple when you knew how.

With information gleaned from Mrs. Gammie’s cookbooks and Marg’s help, I began the daunting task of learning the basics of cooking, which I discovered I enjoyed once the panic wore off, but it was still a welcome relief when Donna arrived three days later. Marg had her own chores to contend with and would not have been able to cover for me for much longer. She was the only one who ever knew I had no idea what I was doing those first few days.

I liked Donna and we worked well together. She was a little older than me, and I never saw her wear anything but a checkered western shirt, tight jeans, and riding boots. Her straight dark hair, which she cut herself, was kept severely short. She was an excellent cook and I learned a lot from her that summer.

The mornings were the busiest and began with the coffee-making ritual. Two massive blue-enamel coffee pots were filled with cold water and placed on a high flame on the propane stove. As soon as the water boiled, coffee granules were measured into the pots; when the mixture began to bubble, it was lifted off the flames to cool slightly and then put back on the heat. This process was repeated several times, after which a little cold water was dribbled over the top to settle the grounds. The enamel pots were heavy when full, and although Donna and Mrs. Gammie could lift them with ease, I struggled with those damn pots. They became the bane of my summer, but this so-called cowboy coffee was excellent.

After breakfast, when the dishes had been washed and the kitchen tidied, Donna and I checked the menu that we had decided on the night before. Then, riding in her Volkswagen, we drove the rough track to the vegetable garden on the far side of the barn. Here were carrots, potatoes, onions, parsnips, cabbages, peas, broccoli, beets, and turnips, plus some of the more popular herbs—thyme, parsley, sage, mint, lovage, and oregano. After harvesting what we needed, we drove down to the beach to wash the vegetables in the green water of the lake. As it lapped against our feet and ankles, I sent appreciative thoughts to the Great Whomever for leading me here.

Usually by two o’clock the morning’s work was completed and the afternoon was free for