8 September 2026
Westward ho!
Then…
Northward, oh!
The tingle was back. That shiver of excitement which always electrified me each time the open road beckoned. And on that cold winter’s morning, I was on the move once more.
After three months in Toronto, I was heading West.
With the long, creaking CN train picking up speed, I waved farewell to Canada’s largest city. I’d enjoyed my time there but my search for a job in journalism had been a failure. Without any experience, every newspaper door had been closed to me.
It was January 1966 and I was a jobless 22-year-old English immigrant, all alone in a new country. What now?
Go West, young man! That’s the advice I’d been given and so there I was, on a train with a one-way ticket to Vancouver.
Goodbye Toronto, hello Vancouver! (Photo: Wikipedia)
By my reckoning, with careful management, my money would last about a week before things got desperate. But hey, a lot could happen in a week, right?
That first evening on the train, making for the dining car, I bumped – literally- into three young men about my own age. Turns out they were soldiers on their way to join their regiment in Manitoba.
We had supper together and got on so well that they “adopted” me. Soon, they were introducing me to all kinds of new bad habits, the baddest being Canadian rye whisky. Not being a big drinker, my introduction was memorable.
The next morning, the four of us were sitting in the observation car, joking and chatting and comparing hangovers. There were three other individuals scattered around us. A man who appeared to be in his mid 20s was sprawled a few seats ahead; a young black woman sat quietly at the front; and a middle-aged chap was a few rows behind us.
Suddenly, the younger man stood up, ran to the front and began screaming racial epithets at the young woman. My three companions jumped from their seats, rushed forward and wrestled the abuser to the floor. At which point, to everyone’s surprise, the older man at the back came charging forward and began beating on the young man who was being restrained by my Manitoba friends. Talk about a frightening, chaotic situation.
Moments later, the CN train conductor appeared and ordered everyone back to their seats. After much questioning, it turned out the young chap was an American who had served in Vietnam where he’d developed a serious dislike of non-whites.
The train official ordered all six of us men downstairs to the corridor below, where he produced a piece of white chalk.
He bent and drew a thick line across the corridor.
“Now you,” he said, pointing to the young American, “you’re confined to the rear of the train and up to this line.”
Then he pointed to the rest of us. “And all of you are confined to the front of this train, as far as this line.”
He had one more thing to add. “If any of you crosses this line,” he growled, “I’ll have you thrown off this train!”
One look at his face convinced us that he meant it.
The next day, my new friends departed the train in Manitoba, leaving me to ponder my next move, once I reached Vancouver. Having survived quite nicely in a $12-a-week Toronto rooming house, similar accommodation would probably suffice in Vancouver. Once I had a place to lay my head, I’d make the rounds of the various newspapers and find a job as a reporter.
Ah, if only it had been that easy.
Once I reached Vancouver, finding a room had not been a problem. Finding a job, however, was.
Frustratingly, it was the same-old issue. Yes, I had experience selling advertising for a newspaper back in Manchester, but I had no experience as a journalist, the only career I’d ever wanted.
After a week of pounding the streets of Vancouver, my funds were alarmingly low. There was, however, a tiny glimmer of hope. I’d learned that a representative of a small out-of-town newspaper was in the city and might have a job opening of some kind. The publication was in a place called Prince George and when I consulted a map, I was stunned. The place was almost 800 kms north!
With $50 to my name, how on earth to get there? I decided to worry about that after I’d snared the job.
I hustled along to the hotel where the man was staying, went to his room and knocked. The door opened and I found myself in the presence of Don Fenton, a man destined to become a good friend and major influence in my young life.
At that moment, however, he was simply a businessman focused on packing his bags and catching a plane back to Prince George.
I explained my presence and he told me the vacancy was for an advertising salesman on a weekly called The Progress. My heart sank; I really didn’t like selling but I was desperate. I hauled out my painfully thin resume.
Don barely glanced at it, or even appeared to be listening; he was busy on his hands-and-knees, searching under the bed for a lost sock. After 15 minutes of the strangest one-sided interview I’d ever experienced, he stood by the door, bags packed.
“The job’s yours.,” he said. “Just one thing, today’s Wednesday and I need you on-deck no later than 4 p.m. Friday or forget it!”
And with that, he was gone!
The whole thing was so surreal that I had to pinch myself. I had a job; the job was a ridiculous distance away; and I didn’t have enough money to get myself there. Obviously, there was only one thing to do.
The next morning, I went to the Greyhound bus depot and slapped down a 20-dollar bill at the ticket wicket.
“I’m heading for Prince George. How far will that get me?”
The clerk consulted his fare schedule.
“As far as Hope,” he said.
“And how far from there to Prince George?”
Another 630 kilometres, he replied.
I sighed. This was going to be the longest hitch-hike I’d ever done, and in the middle of a Canadian winter, too!
As it turned out, it was an even longer hitch than I’d anticipated. The bus broke an axle 20 kms before Hope, stranding everyone until a replacement could be found.
Painfully aware of my Friday deadline, I left the warmth of the bus, stepped into the snowy twilight and almost fainted. I couldn’t believe how cold it was. Dressed in my thin English clothing, I was totally unprepared for a hinterland Canadian winter.
Gasping for breath, I struggled through the snow to get clear of the disabled bus, then stuck out my thumb. To my surprise, I got a ride within minutes. The driver was a travelling salesman who proceeded to lecture me on frostbite and the foolishness of hitch-hiking in 20-below weather. When he heard my story, however, his admonishments changed to sympathy. He told me he was heading to Prince George and that I could ride there with him. It might take some time, he warned, because he had several stops to make along the way. Warm once more and heading in the right direction, I nodded happily.
Prince George or bust! Go North, young man… (Photo: Tourism Prince George)
And so, slowly, we made our way North on the icy highway until, mid-afternoon Friday we reached Prince George and, after much searching, my ride dropped me at the office of the little weekly newspaper. No wonder it was so hard to find; it was tucked away in the basement of a steak house. I began to have some serious second thoughts about this whole adventure but it was too late to turn back.
I bounded down the stairs and saw Don Fenton talking to another chap. Don barely glanced my way.
“I’m here!” I cried out. “I made it on time!”
“Yes, so I see,” he said, unimpressed. “Well, there’s your desk, your phone and all the information you need. Put your suitcase over there and start selling some ads. We have a paper to put out.”
And thus, tired and disheveled from the road, I began my career in Canadian newspapers.
Next time: My big break arrives, only to be scuppered by a naked woman.
English-born journalist Peter Duffy came to Canada in 1965, liked what he saw and stayed. Something of an ink-stained nomad, Peter has worked on papers in England, Canada, New Zealand and even, briefly, Las Vegas! He retired from The Chronicle-Herald in 2009. He’s married to Barbara and has two grown step-children. Peter is Secretary of the Royal St. George’s Society of Halifax.
