Barry Sale
Special to the Tribune
The other day, I was looking through the history notes of the late Dr. John Roberts, and I came across the following story. It was told to him by Dr. Eldon Lee, who, along with his brother Todd, grew up on a ranch on the Knife Creek Road.
Eldon became a medical doctor and would claim the title of “the only obstetrician north of the 51st parallel in B.C.”
Todd went into the ministry and served as the rector at St. Andrew’s United Church in Williams Lake from 1956 to 1959. Both wrote books about their careers in the Cariboo.
This story takes place in the mid 1930s, during a time of deep economic depression in the country. At that time, the 141 Mile Ranch was owned by an Englishman with the surname of Johnson.
He was quite a character, and I have written this account exactly as it was recorded in Dr. Robert’s notes.
Racehorse Johnson was a transplanted Englishman who owned the houses, barns, and hundreds of rolling acres at 141 Mile.
He also built a full-sized racing course to train and exercise a substantial herd of thoroughbreds, and it was from this passion for horses that he earned his nickname.
During the Depression, when there was hardly a dollar in the country, Johnson had no lack of money, and it was generally understood that he was wealthy and received substantial financial assistance from home.
Whether profligacy was the reason that Johnson left England and English society, or whether he was simply imbued with an adventurous spirit no one knew, but certainly he presented a far different figure than the average rancher.
His usual garb was of whipcord flared riding jodhpurs with English riding boots, a three-quarter length car coat, and a soft checkered cap. His face was full, somewhat choleric, nose fleshy and lips set off by a narrow straight-line moustache. His blue eyes tended to bulge, and tiny veins were breaking on his nose and cheeks.
He was friendly in a somewhat detached way, and since people in the Cariboo tended to live and let live, no one thought ill of him just because he was different.
Don Laidlaw, a diminutive, somewhat waspish Scot, managed the ranch affairs, and Ghaw, a venerable Chinese relic from the mining days, kept the house in some sort of order and cooked the most abominable meals.
This left Racehorse free to cultivate his main interests, which, in order of involvement were thoroughbred horses, Scotch whiskey, and a slender little girlfriend who lived a number of miles down the gravel road.
The three interests were not necessarily compatible. If his horses ran poorly, the Scotch whiskey was apt to flow more freely, and if the Scotch whiskey flowed, he was inclined to yearn for the tender embrace of his love many miles down the road.
This led to the high-backed touring car being pressed into service, with Racehorse leaning forward, steering wheel grasped in both hands, racing down the road with dust billowing in clouds behind. The curves, the gravel, and the alcohol combined to make this a tricky undertaking, and many a morning found him sitting slumped over the steering wheel, snoring fitfully, and shivering in the early morning cold, his touring car off the road and resting in the shattered panels of some luckless neighbouring rancher’s fence.
One summer, Racehorse was disturbed by the numerous black bears coming around and turning his garbage cans over, scattering the contents far and wide.
He must have mentioned this problem to his mother in a letter home, because forthwith there arrived a parcel containing a .450-gauge elephant gun designed for the darkest Africa, along with enough ammunition to kill every creature in the Cariboo.
At Christmas time, Racehorse was known to sink deeper and deeper into melancholy as the season progressed. One couple invited him to accompany them on a driving trip to Prince George.
Somewhat to their surprise, he accepted, and the little group set out in zero weather, in the weak afternoon sunshine. Racehorse was well covered in coats and blankets, sitting in the back seat of a Model A Ford. They passed the 153 Mile House and store and continued on towards Soda Creek.
As usual, Racehorse was well fortified against all the vicissitudes of nature, and he fell asleep, snoring loudly, awaking only occasionally to curse the damnable cold which was biting through to the very marrow of his bones.
Then the Ford’s radiator erupted in a cloud of steam and motor stopped, with no hope of being started again that day.
Since it was late in the afternoon, no cars or horses were about, and there was no alternative but to walk in the frigid miles back to the 153 Mile House.
They started out in single file with Racehorse, stooped and bundled under great coats, shuffling along on the edge of the road bring up the rear. Dusk was gathering when he finally sat down on a snowbank and waved for his companions to walk on alone.
“Leave me behind to die.” He groaned, but the lady of the party developed an exceedingly testy attitude towards this inebriated scion of English society.
She turned on him in a fury, calling him every ill word she could bring to mind, giving him a foretaste of the warm reception in the hereafter that would soon be his if he remained sitting in the snowbank.
Placing herself behind him, she prodded him on berating him every step of the way until the lights of 153 Mile appeared in the frosty night.
They were made welcome by the Crosinas, and Racehorse slumped down in a chair, blanket round his shoulders, with both feet in steaming pails of water.
This experience was perhaps the final straw, for the next summer Racehorse sold the ranch and returned to England , a discouraged man.
One might well have foreseen a sodden end of drink and disgrace for him, but such was not the case.
Racehorse gave up the bottle, served with distinction in World War II, and upon his return from combat represented a Manchester riding in the English Parliament for many years.
