Like many communities on Prince of Wales Island, Coffman Cove got its start as a logging camp. When we moved there in the early nineties, it was well into its first decade as a city with a population of about three hundred.

In 1991, the Coffman Cove cut-off consisted of twenty miles of what was basically one lane of (very) bumpy gravel road, with occasional spots where one could ostensibly pull off in a hurry. The logging company still had a sizeable interest in the community, and the road was well-used by logging trucks whose drivers were paid by the load. This meant they drove very fast, and if you encountered one on a curve it was hard to find a way around. To counter this problem, everybody was supposed to employ a unique system whereby drivers could alert other drivers as to their position and direction on the road.

Everybody had a CB radio in their vehicle, and the method was to call out your position every time you passed a mile marker. When leaving Coffman Cove you would say, “Empty,” and when traveling towards town you would say, “Loaded.” These designations would actually be true for logging trucks, but we said them too while driving our old blue van to and from town. Thus, a driver heading towards town might say, “Mile 12, loaded.” What made things extra interesting is that the mile markers had been placed by committee, such that Mile 55 followed Mile 1 at about the midpoint of the road. Everybody who traveled the road was supposed to know that, but still, it could sneak up on you.

One crusty old truck driver whom I will call Jim had a close call indeed. Apparently, he was driving as fast as everybody always did, and encountered a hapless tourist on a blind curve. He took to the ditch rather than hit them head on and slammed into a bank. His entire load of logs “shifted,” took out the so-called (and wonderfully understated) “headache rack” and rear window of his cab and slammed through his windshield at about waist height.

When rescuers arrived, they saw no room whatsoever in the cab where Jim might fit unscathed. They milled around anxiously before approaching the truck, fearful, no doubt, of what they would see inside. It soon became apparent, however, that old Jim had not reached his current age by being slow to respond. He had, in fact, had the presence of mind to dive for the floorboards as soon as he saw what was happening. Imagine the relief the young first responders felt when they heard his raspy old voice emanating from the very bowels of the ruined cab:

“Goddammit!  Why is everybody just standing around? Get me the hell outta here!”