Right of Passage

September 9, 2019

The climb up the steep river bank, composed of muddy clay and sandstone, was challenging. Not only was the traction difficult, there were rose bushes and thistles with thorns that scratched and jabbed our tender skin. Had we been wearing our standard attire of running shoes and blue jeans, it would have been much easier, but as we were naked, the climb up the Blindman River bank was an achievement on its own. The real goal, however, still remained …

Before going further, perhaps a bit of background.would be helpful. As I recall, it must have been in late May or June of 1974. Being in our final year of high school, I and my six friends, Dick, Gary, Howard, John, Paul and Wayne were excited to be approaching the end of our school days. On one particularly fine fair weather day, as we joined one another for our noon hour break someone suggested that we go for a swim in the Blindman River. As this would involve a drive of approximately 15 minutes, it was quickly decided that we would “skip” our 80 minute post lunch class. This would give us enough time to make the drive there and back, have a refreshing swim and be back in time for the last class of the day.

Of course, no one planned this little expedition in advance, so no one had a swimsuit or towel. This was not a problem, however, as we knew of a little used road that ended at a secluded bend in the Blindman about a mile or so upstream of Burbank Park; a perfect spot for a quick skinny dip. Soon we were all in the water, splashing and basking in the warm noon sun. There must have been some recent rain, for the Blindman, normally a languid, semi-stagnant stream was moving a good clip and before we knew it we were being carried down the river through a series of gentle rapids. Little did we realize that we were being swept along, inescapably, to an event that would leave us all an enduring memory. As we drifted around a bend, there came into view, the imposing structure of the CN train trestle bridge. To us seven teenage boys it was a challenge too good to pass on.

The sixties and seventies were times of great change, some came with sobering effects on society, while others were seen to be more prankish in nature. Of these, the act of streaking, that is, running naked through a public space or event, rather than being judged as lecherous, was for the most part viewed as a harmless, if not somewhat bizarre behaviour.

And so it was that the seven of us, scrambled up the bank, enduring scrapes and cuts, milky white arms, legs and bottoms, ascending in the warm spring sun. A bit of research tells me that the bridge span is about 600 feet, not a trifling distance, considering the river is at least 100 feet below and there are no guard rails. Suffice it to say that our passage across and back was done with alacrity. Fortunately, no train appeared to spoil our prize.

In preparation for this memoir I have polled a number of those friends on what exactly they recall. Interestingly, forty five years later, every one of us remembers the event. I noticed a few slight discrepancies, but for the most part the memories appear to be in agreement. Too bad that we didn’t have smart phones back then to record our memories. Actually, on second thought, I’m glad we didn’t!