Crooked Ways: A Forty Year Journey Through the Wilds of British Columbia Corrections

By Ron Allen and Caroline Allen

This book is about how one man survived over forty years in British Columbia Corrections on the free side of the bars. These years were not planned but in no way regretted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387555314

Book preview

Crooked Ways:

A 40-Year Journey Through the Wilds of British Columbia Corrections

By

Ron Allen

If one really wishes to know how justice is administered in a country, one does not question the policemen, the lawyers, the judges, or the protected members of the middle class.  One goes to the unprotected, those, precisely, who need the law’s  protection most, and listen to their testimony.

James Baldwin (1924-1987)

Table of Contents

Prologue:

Chapter 1:  A New World

Chapter 2:  Making Me

Chapter 3:  Living the Life

Chapter 4:  Evolving Justice

Chapter 5:  A Higher Calling

Chapter 6:  Great White North

Chapter 7:  The Judiciary

Chapter 8:  The Fugitive

Chapter 9:  Family Matters

Chapter 10:  Northern Tour

Chapter 11:  Historical Stewart

Chapter 12:  Way Up North

Chapter 13:  Telegraph Creek

Chapter 14:  Scared Straight

Chapter 15:  Atlin

Chapter 16:  Down Under

Chapter 17:  Shuswap Lake

Chapter 18:  Okanagan Sun

Chapter 19:  Traumatized

Chapter 20:  A New Ministry

Chapter 21:  Southern Tour

Chapter 22:  The Similkameen

Chapter 23:  Dueling Banjos

Chapter 24:  Afterlife

Chapter 25:  Armchair Judges

Chapter 26:  Choices

Chapter 27:  Average Joes

Chapter 28:  Mental Health

Chapter 29:  Consequences

Chapter 30:  Club Fed

Chapter 31:  A Higher Power

Epilogue

Prologue:

Forty-two years working with people.  Who would have thought?  It all started with a teenage adventure that ended rather badly.  None of us make all the right decisions, and, it seems to me, that it is what we learn from our choices that often contributes to who we are.  I was lucky to have strong family role models who bestowed upon me fairly good values.  I had other good role models along the way and also learned acceptance of others from my youthful adventures.  Looking back, I think I was fairly tolerant when it came to differences in people, cultures and the choices people make.  I did my work with few pre-conceived biases about people and their decisions and did my best to guide them through their lives with hopefully as little impact to others as possible.  I hope my involvement helped some make better choices, which would see them enjoy more satisfied lives or, in some cases, protect the rest of us from them.

It has been an adventure every day….well, maybe not every day, but there were lots of interesting people and times along the way.  I sometimes get the sense that I did make a difference, maybe, at least a little bit.  I do not think I influenced any to become CEOs or presidents, but at least I hope a few became good parents and citizens. 

The correctional system, where I did my work, is an organism that is in a constant state of change that bobs and weaves with the changing times, needs of the people and society. It is, unfortunately, a necessity in our culture but to be useful it must be fair and just and have respect for the people who come into contact with it.  Although it is conceived by politicians, I shudder when politicians start meddling in its workings, as it is politics that motivates them and, in my opinion, not always in the best interests of citizens.  Corrections should be left to corrections.  It is not a perfect system, but it is growing and changing with the times and with the needs of its people.  I was just a little cog in the works, but hope I contributed to making it a little better or at least function as it should for the people it serves.  Would I have chosen another vocation?  Not likely. 

Please note that the experiences I relate in this work are based on personal experiences and are generally factual, but the names of the participants are fictional….to protect the guilty.  Any names that were published in the media are the correct names, such as in the story of the Mad Trapper of Teslin Lake or the unfortunate Matthew Vaudreuil.  The opinions and rantings are mine alone.  Enjoy

The Journey Is the Reward!

…Tau Expression

Chapter 1: A New World

Driving on a gravel road about 20 kilometres into the wilderness in a fancy suit with my expensive degrees in hand, I was entirely unprepared for the interview that I was about to undertake.  I knew nothing about being a jail guard for convicted felons, however young they might be.  Then again, as a former schoolteacher, some of my students could certainly have qualified as aspiring criminals. 

The prison at which I was seeking employment was called Lakeview Youth Camp.  It was fairly obviously named because it overlooked a beautiful little lake which, in my estimation, was misnamed Mud Lake.  The camp was a 30-kilometre drive north of Campbell River on Vancouver Island plus several further kilometres of gravel road into the wilderness.  It was a co-ed wilderness camp that housed about 30 youth at any one time. 

Although corrections in British Columbia had been around since the 1800s, Youth corrections was a newer concept in the 1970s, and the idea of a co-ed jail was outright radical.  That did not deter me because I really knew nothing of the world I aspired to enter. 

I arrived at a most beautiful setting by a lake, with little huts that apparently housed the young criminals and a central office where the management kept order.  It looked like a summer camp.  Being a wilderness camp at the end of 20 kilometres of gravel road, I began to consider that my dress suit may have been a less than wise choice of attire. 

As I perused the area, I could see several groups of young people, both male and female, milling around a central yard.  It seemed more like a high school smoking pit than any jail I had ever imagined or seen on television.  Where were the barbed wire and armed turrets? 

Undeterred, I knocked on the office door and was greeted by the camp director, a Mr. Hog, I presumed.  A friend had told me about this possible job over the telephone, and I had sent a letter submitting my resume.  I was surprised when a response came almost immediately asking me to come to the camp for an interview. 

I had graduated from university with a teaching degree approximately one year previously and was working part-time as a substitute schoolteacher.  There were no permanent teaching jobs in Courtenay, where I lived at the time.  I could have moved to northern British Columbia, but that was about the last place I wanted to go.  I was a southern boy. 

Substitute teaching, however, was like working in the trenches of a war zone, and I was becoming quite disillusioned with my ability to mold young minds in any positive way.  Every morning I would wake up with the dread that I would receive a call to report to some school where a teacher had abandoned his or her post.  For me it was a choice between two evils, poverty or chaos.  I needed the money, and not working would cause me to starve.  Reporting to some unknown class had its own challenges, as I never knew what would confront me.  The students considered me inconsequential and believed that I was only there to facilitate a nice little holiday from their schoolwork.  There was no lesson plan, and my role was essentially to confine them to the classroom for five hours without anyone hurting himself/herself or others. 

My substitute teaching area was from Campbell River to Qualicum Beach on Vancouver Island, about 90 kilometres.  I could be sent to any one of over a hundred schools in this region, with the ringing of an early phone call my only notice.  Sometimes a teacher would be off for a few weeks, which would allow me to develop some kind of a lesson plan and become acquainted with the students.  I did not mind these placements, but they were few and far between.  I was most often assigned to a class for a few days or less and just tried to maintain order until the teacher’s wounds had healed and he or she dared to return. 

After a year of substitute teaching, I was elated when a friend, who was a social worker, suggested that I apply at the local youth prison.  I knew nothing about youth prisons, but I did know a little bit about being a teenage criminal, having had my own youthful adventure with youth corrections. 

My one encounter on the pointy end of the criminal justice system had occurred when I was about 16 years of age.  It had not been a terrible experience and I thought this may not be such a bad field to pursue. 

I had moved to Courtenay with my family at about 15 years of age.  Shortly after my arrival, I met a youth of similar age but a young person not having had the guidance of a stable family.  My new friend, Larry, lived with his father, who worked out of town much of the time.  Thus, Larry often fended for himself.  Our friendship was short lived, however, which was probably a good thing for me. 

One late summer weekend Larry and I conspired to embark on an ill-conceived trip to Vancouver and the Pacific National Exhibition (PNE).  The PNE was something of a circus and attracted people from throughout Western Canada.  We had attended small visiting circuses but never a spectacle on such a grand scale. 

Neglecting to inform our parents, we set out on this road trip as hitch hikers with very limited resources.  We arrived in Vancouver with a little less than $50 each, after having our funds badly depleted by the BC Ferries and a nice meal.  We found our way to the PNE and soon began embracing, with gusto, the circus-like atmosphere of this marvel for the entirety of one day.  We rejoiced in our freedom, gorged on greasy food and climbed the rollercoaster mountain repeatedly, until we became as exhausted as the cash in our pockets.  Just a couple of dumb kids having fun.

As the sun began to disappear over the horizon, the reality of our situation began to present itself in our vacuous minds.  I am not sure how we expected to return from our adventure, as the Georgia Straight made a return trip very difficult without funds, not to mention our lack of food and accommodation.  Were we planning to join the circus?  I am not sure.  This little adventure had not been well considered. 

There we were, two simple-minded 16-year-olds, with no life experience beyond comfy beds, Hockey Night in Canada on Saturday nights and meals that magically appeared before us on kitchen tables three times per day.  We had not a penny between us, and the sun was setting over our rollercoaster adventure.  With the PNE gates rudely slammed in our faces, we ventured across Hastings Street to a school yard that we must have envisioned would offer sanctuary, as schools tend to do.

This was late summer and, in Vancouver, even at the best of times, it is cool and wet once the sun’s warmth ventures to foreign lands.  Larry and I, not ready to attempt a return journey, possibly because our reception at home was uncertain, decided to settle in for the night outside a dark and foreboding school.  At about midnight, however, sleepless and soggy, we were beginning to seek a little of the warmth and comfort that had characterized our lives to that date.  Clever Larry began testing the school windows and, miraculously, found one to be ajar.  It seems the teachers’ staff room was accessible and offered lounge chairs, warmth, and potential fuel for our depleted bodies.  With little consideration for the consequences of our actions, we slipped into the darkness within and settled ourselves on a couple of comfy couches for the night.  We were quite happy with our ingenuity and with life in general. 

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, no doubt dreaming of sunny days and comfy beds, I was most dramatically disturbed by the intense illumination of a flashlight and loud shouting, sounding something like Who’s in there?  and Come out immediately.  Apparently, we had set off a silent alarm. 

We each made half-hearted attempts to avoid the consequences of our ill-conceived actions.  I managed to slither out a window and sprint across a field before a rather large and angry dog brought me to earth and to my senses.  I’m not sure where Larry went but, in about 5 minutes, we were both handcuffed and roughly trundled into the back of a police cruiser.  It did not seem they were taking us to watch Hockey Night in Canada. 

After a visit to the police station, a lot of questions and another trip in the back of a police van, we found ourselves deposited inside the back door of a juvenile detention centre, only a few blocks from our exploits at the PNE.  Neither of us had experienced the long arm of the law before, and we were feeling fairly intimidated by the whole process.  Being affable young men, our cooperation soon found us in two fairly comfy bunks and munching on a late-night snack.  Crime did not seem so bad after all.  I drifted off to sleep once again but was rudely awakened before daybreak by a large gong and someone telling us to get dressed and report to the kitchen for breakfast. 

We were soon in a room with about 20 other young men of similar age and deportment.  I recall spending about a day in this facility, cleaning toilets and mopping floors.  Luckily, we were two of the larger boys, so there was little threat of nefarious transgressions upon our persons.  I do recall quite enjoying a rather boisterous and, even violent, game of dodge ball.  We gave as good as we received. 

By about dinner time, my extremely angry father appeared at the front desk to bail us out.  His face seemed much redder than usual, and the conversation was very limited throughout our journey home.  I do not think I was ever allowed to see Larry socially again. 

Larry went on to participate in many subsequent nefarious adventures, with the resulting lifestyle, while this event was my inaugural and only. 

About a year later, we reached our day of reckoning as aspiring juvenile delinquents.  We stood before a packed courtroom ready to be admonished for our actions by an elderly judge.  For me, this was the first time in such a predicament, and I was scared.  My upbringing had not prepared me for such a day. 

Standing before the court, our stupidity was revealed to the world, as crown counsel read the charges that we had been accused of.  Thankfully, the charges were reduced to simple trespassing, as we had neither damaged nor stolen anything, and were caught red-handed…sleeping.  After a brief hearing, the judge ordered my continued alienation from my co-conspirator, and I was given a few months of probation supervision.  No headlines in the paper and no lashing.  Just probation. 

Not being sure what that meant, a week later I attended my first probation appointment with trepidation.  Was I, after all, to experience 20 lashes?  To my eternal surprise, a handsome young man in his 20s named Ian greeted me with a warm handshake and a ready smile.  He was not in uniform, and no torture devices were apparent within his office.  We sat down for a little chat, and I soon became very comfortable in his company. 

Ian was a most personable individual who made one feel welcome and heard.  He did not try to entice me to embark on a new path or condemn me for my reprehensible actions.  He listened to the stories of my life and offered his own.  I became aware that we were not so dissimilar.  I visited him every couple of weeks for a few months and found myself looking forward to my visits.  I recall, at one point, him asking me what I would like to do with my life.  After a couple of 17-year-old seconds, a light must have illuminated in the vacuity of my mind and I replied with sincerity, I want to be like you.

With my probationary period over and no more visits, I put thoughts of a career as a probation officer behind me and went on with my life.  There were to be no more ill-advised trips with Larry for me. 

When I received my invitation to work in a youth prison setting, I had some real-life experience, albeit on the other side of the criminal justice spectrum.  Due to my fairly positive experience with my probation officer, I was not entirely opposed to such an environment.  Even so, as I approached the Lakeview Youth Camp office for my interview, it was not without trepidation.  I began to consider that my inquisitor might know of my nefarious past and demand my banishment?  I hoped not. 

Approaching the office door, I glanced at the note in my hand that informed me that I was to see a Mr. Hog.  Knocking on the door, I was ushered in, and I requested to see the person who would conduct my interview.  By the response within, it seemed I had found him even though I was a bit concerned when my enquiry elicited what appeared to be hearty laughter from the apparent Mr. Hog.  As I shook Mr. Hawkes’ hand, he informed me of his correct name.  I guess something had been lost in the telephone communication with my social worker friend. 

Regardless, Mr. Hawkes seemed to be an affable soul and directed me to his office.  He also mentioned my letter, and asked: You have never worked in a jail, have you?  No,  I answered.  I thought so, from the description of your job skills, he replied. I could not remember what I had written in my letter of application, but I had obviously been entirely misinformed about the job qualifications. 

We sat down near a window overlooking the milling teenage felons in the yard who seemed to be enjoying a picnic on a sunny summer afternoon.  I still hoped to see some bars and barbed wire.  Mr. Hawkes and I went over my resume, which confirmed that I had no youth justice experience or any other kind of justice experience.  Thankfully, he did not seem to know about my nefarious past.  Since the justice system was obviously not my area of expertise, we moved on. 

So, what experience do you have with teenage children?  he enquired. 

Well,  I replied.  I have done some substitute teaching for a year and had a hockey stick thrown at my head. 

You’re hired,  he replied. 

And that was about it.  No criminal record checks.  No aptitude tests.  No understanding of the justice system.  I started a week later and received two weeks of training about six months after my start date. 

As it turned out, Lakeview Youth Camp, and wilderness camps in general, were a fairly new initiative in British Columbia and everyone at the camp was about as untrained as I was.  We were a mixture of social workers, failed schoolteachers (me), handy men, wilderness experts, carpenters, loggers and a couple of cooks.  I actually had more qualifications than most, thinking of the hockey stick incident, my night in youth jail, and my glittering degree in education. 

My prison life began with 48-hour shifts on and 4 days off.  We were thrown into the fire and learned as we went along.  The pay was great and the time off was even better.  There was just one problem….the 48 hours in camp seemed like 480 hours.  These hours involved children even more difficult than my hockey stick perpetrator.  As well, the co-ed concept seemed, in my estimation, to be somewhat ill advised.  Putting teenage boys and girls together in a wilderness setting would surely reap results, and not all of them desirable.  The birds and the bees scenario can obviously create some problems…and other things.  Someone eventually got pregnant, resulting in an immediate disappearance of all female residents shortly thereafter.  I think there was a collective sigh of relief felt by the staff.

Lakeview Youth Camp was considered an open custody facility because of its general programming and lack of barbed wire.  It first began accepting residents in 1978.  It operated for 25 years, closing in 2003 because of the decreasing numbers of youth in the justice system.  The courts began using different options to manage criminally involved youth, with a variety of other programs developed to divert incorrigible children from incarceration.  The coed experiment only lasted a couple of years and, as far as I know, was not attempted again. 

I worked at Lakeview for about two years and learned how to function in a correctional setting with very difficult children.  There were many good times with these youth as, once they were separated from their environment, peers and, likely, substance abuse, they were mostly just kids.  They enjoyed games, all sports and honesty.  I suspect many of them had never had the opportunity to experience these things and were likely better off for having attended the program. 

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These youth were, however, largely damaged by their lives and upbringing, resulting in many very difficult moments.  After two years I put all my belongings in storage and headed out to discover the world.  I quit my job at Lakeview and swore that I would never return.  After a year, however, I needed a job and did not wish to return to the forest industry, which had been my original vocation.  Swallowing hard, I returned to Lakeview for another year which resulted in corrections becoming my chosen field for the next 42 years, in a variety of capacities. 

Chapter 2: Making Me

Although there was that little experience as a teenager when I was thrown into a youth detention facility and subsequently reported to a wise man, there were innumerable other factors that caused me to pursue the career that I chose.  I actually went to the land of higher learning to become a schoolteacher and tried being a high school teacher for a year.