This article is a part of the My Favourite Car Story series, where we are asking readers to submit their most memorable stories.
I lived in the Pacific Northwest in the late '70s and laboured in all the local employment schemes - salmon fishing, working in the fish plants and boat shops and planting trees spring and fall.
Always a pickup truck fan, I drove a 1963 Chevrolet ½ ton in fairly good shape, mostly rust free and abundant patina - although we didn't call it patina back then.
My wife, my year-old daughter and I set off from Prince Rupert to Prince George for a season of helicopter site tree planting, with all our gear in the back including tents, clothes, equipment and wild ambitions.
Finishing work mid-June, we packed up the truck and headed for Vancouver and a new high chair; we travelled the Okanagan Valley, the Williams Lake rodeo, the Fraser Canyon, the Lower Mainland and spent a wild week in Vancouver, relishing city life, buying a new high chair (still in use by the next generation).
Next, Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo, the old Island Highway to Port Hardy, and the ferry home to Prince Rupert. Turning the corner onto our little street, happy to be home, I pressed the brake pedal with vigor, only to have it sink to the floor as the flex line to a front wheel failed and the brake reservoir emptied itself.
Yanking on the handbrake and grinding the gearbox into first, the truck ground to a halt. As the truck stopped I could vizualize ourselves careening down the Fraser Canyon through Hell's Gate, without a care in the world, happy go lucky-very, very lucky.
Cars can be about a lot more than getting from point A to point B or horsepower. Every car is filled with memories and we want to hear yours. Do you have a memorable car story? Tell us in 100 words or less and we will contact you for more details. The best stories will be published as part of our new My Favourite Car series. Please use the form below to share your story.
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