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A fateful encounter a | | oy
-When Lars Henry Widget abandoned his Swedish homeland for the west coast of Canada,
he had no clear picture of what the future held. He did, however, have a fixed image of the
potential. During the Widgets’ Atlantic voyage, Lars read and reread old letters penned by an
old friend describing a magical little place called Terrace.
After two days at sea, his young wife pled for mercy. “Lars... please,” she would
say firmly but with a hint of an understanding sinile, “I can wait ‘til we get there.”
“But Gretchen. This is our new home... our future. We must know everything we
can to make the best of this move. I owe that to you... We both owe it to young William.”
“Young William wants to sleep, Lars,” she would point out a little impatiently. “And for
that matter so dol.” .

Twisting a little to her left so Lars could see the screwed up indifference in the
face of his son, she would add, “He's two weeks old Lars. He’s tired... He doesn’t care
about Terrace... And this boat moves to make us both feel somewhat queasy.”

“But...

“Go read your letters to the captain... or the ship’s chaplain... or the ship’s cat.

Anyone. But please leave me and young William in peace.” .

Pocketing his prized letters, Lars would sulk from their state room, only to
return an hour or so later to reveal a “new” bit of information that Gretchen had
heard at least a dozen times before. The scene would be repeated, but on occa-
sion would be brought to an abrupt and early end when young William let out an
ear-piercing shriek.

Lars, assuming the infant’s crying was in support of his mother’s com-

plaints, would hurriedly retreat to the quiet of the main deck. Gretchen, who
had no intention of disclosing a little inside information, would lay young

William on the lower bunk and strip, wipe and bundle him in a fresh dia-

per.
“It’s only just,” she would whisper to her son, “that we don’t tell your

father.” Then they would sleep.
In the main cabin on deck, Lars would paraphrase bits of
his treasured letters to anyone who cared to listen. “A
very short history,” he would say. “But very exciting.
Pioneers, Indians... You should visit there.”
He would tell his involuntary listeners of a man
called Lillesberg who built a mill for cutting railway
ties in 1908, only to watch it burn down in 1909.
“He never rebuilt.”

The year Lillesberg’s mill burned down, a
young lad by the name of Carl Pohle arrived in
the valley. “He would have a major impact on the
course of events there,” Lars would say with pre-
tended wisdom. “Perhaps someday, so will 1.”.

Lars would then explain how Pohle began

working on the Grand Trunk Pacific railway
out of a place called Prince Rupert before:
moving to Terrace. This would remind him
of other events. He would describe Kitse-
las and its canyon and tunnels, and down
river the moving of Kitsumkalum graves.
“The railway opened in 1911,” Lars would
conclude. | |
And there was George Little, the