Wednesday, June 26, 2019

The Cariboo Wagon Road by A.M.Westerling


During the early days of the Cariboo Gold Rush in British Columbia, getting there presented a serious challenge to the miners as Barkerville was located 400 miles north and east of Yale. Thick underbrush clogged the mountainous route and some of the mountain passes still had five feet of snow in April. Parts of the journey north were extremely dangerous and horses and their owners would often fall to their deaths over the mountains or drown in the swift and deep waters of the Fraser and Thompson Rivers.


However, the success of the gold fields and the great influx of people made it necessary to improve access. The governor at that time, Governor James Douglas, determined that a safe road was required and the Royal Engineers were engaged for the task. In October of 1861, Colonel Richard Clement Moody recommended that the Yale to Barkerville route through the Fraser Canyon be built for the benefit of the country. The Royal Engineers assessed the route and suggested it be built in sections: Yale to Spuzzum, Spuzzum to Lytton, Lytton to the Lilooet Junction, Lilloet to Fort Alexandria, and Quesnel to Barkerville.


When it was completed, some people called it the "Eight Wonder of the World."

While doing research for the book, my sweetie and I took a bit of a road trip through the Fraser Canyon. You can still see a portion of the original road in the Skihist Campground, just outside of Lytton on the Trans Canada Highway. 




We followed the highway all the way through the Fraser Canyon and stopped to take these photos at the summit of Jackass Mountain. Far below you see the Fraser River.






Rose and Harrison meet on the final section of the road between Quesnel to Barkerville. It was a particularly difficult section to construct because of mud, swamp and fallen trees. 

For more information on the Cariboo Gold Rush, this is a wonderful website: www.cariboogoldrush.com  

You can read all about Rose and Harrison's gold rush adventures in Barkerville Beginnings, available at your favourite online store HERE






Sunday, June 23, 2019

Caribou & Men



See all my historical novels @




The aboriginal people of NWT were hunter/gatherers when the European colonists "discovered" them. The 1st Nations were already on the land, and many said that Creator had shaped men from the mud that was found between the caribou's toes.  In those days, men and animals journeyed through an immense landscape every year, following the caribou that fed and clothed them. Every bit of what they killed was used, every scrap of sinew and hide and meat.

The great herds moved unobstructed across the land like water and wind. The people followed. They original inhabitants didn't kill for "fun;" they killed by necessity. Sometimes, when the game traveled on new path or their numbers declined (for one reason or another) the people starved. In the old days, the human population cycled up and down along with that population of prey animals.

The Woodland Caribou is a kind of specialist, different from the Barren Ground Caribou--the one you see on long harrowing journeys if you watch wildlife shows. The Woodland Caribou live and feed in old growth conifer forests where lichens and mosses grow. Trees of 85 to 150 years of age are the perfect hosts for the aerial and ground plant life on which these caribou depend. This means that undisturbed old growth forests are of prime importance to their survival.



Mining exploration had been going on in the NWT since earliest times, ("Yellowknife" refers to the gold blades some members of that tribe once made) but it wasn't until the 1990's that the digging began in earnest now with heavy loud modern machinery. The data shows it is not coincidental that this is the time when the numbers of the Woodland Caribou began to diminish. Mining didn't begin in earnest until the 1990's. It is not coincidental that this is the time when the numbers of the caribou began to diminish.

Toxic waste is a typical by-product of mining; moreover, that industry does not have a good record of cleaning up after itself anywhere, but logging at first seems to have been the hardest on the caribou. Not only noise, dust and continuous human activity, but the clear-cutting of the ancient forests--both the soil disruption and the removal of the trees -- cut severely into the supply of lichens and mosses, (some aerial, some ground dwelling) upon which the woodland caribou depend.

Roads, pipelines, seismic and now hydro lines create clear highways along which predators such as Lynx, Wolf & Bear can travel deep into what were once once (nearly) impenetrable forests. Now these predators hunt the Boreal Caribou where they have long been accustomed to resting, feeding or giving birth, times when they are particularly vulnerable to attack. This kind of habitat fragmentation affects all migratory animals which now share a planet with humans.


Caribou are named for the places the places where they calve. One herd that is failing spectacularly--much to the dismay of the 1st Nations people whose ancient way of life is threatened--is the Bathhurst herd. Once as many as 500,000, now there are less than 10,000. The numbers continue to fall.

This year there is a proposed permanent road north, again through what was once boreal forests, an extension of Highway 3 north to Whati', the haven in the wilderness for which my characters, Sascho and Yaotl, search after their escape from the Residential School. Families who live in Whati' year round now will be benefited with cheaper goods, but once again, their ancient ally, the caribou, will suffer -- and diminish.


Noise will be another as yet not much studied factor -- which affects the caribou and the other animals who are accustomed to living in the area of the proposed Whati road. Studies done in 2012 by the University of Idaho showed that simply broadcasting a recording of road noise--in this case of a heavily used climb in Glacier National Park--was sufficient to drive animals away. Some bird migrations that were documented as common in the roadless test area used by the "phantom road" study completely ceased. We humans don't have to do much it seems to disrupt Nature's once perfect balance.

Things don't have to be this way. Governments, industry and communities could work together to create local plans and solutions. Federal budget incentives could be used as both carrot and stick to assist caribou recovery. Sustainability must become the mantra for all who live and work in the NWT, if they want the caribou and some part of their ancient way of life to remain. 


~~Juliet Waldron


https://blog.wwf.ca/blog/2018/04/20/governments-argue-risk-woodland-caribou-decline/


Volumetrics, Why noise pollution is more dangerous than we think by David Owen, May 13, 2019, The New Yorker


https://cabinradio.ca/12442/news/environment/how-nwt-proposes-to-protect-wildlife-from-new-whati-road/







Monday, June 17, 2019

"Broken Talkers", the Maliseet, by Diane Scott Lewis

The second First Nation's people of New Brunswick, Canada, that I included in my novel, On a Stormy Primeval Shore, were the Maliseet:
 
This tribe is Algonquian speaking, called Wolastoqiyik or "People of the Beautiful River"; but the Mi'kmaq (showcased in a previous blog) named them "Maliseet" or broken talkers because their language sounded like a broken version of their own.

Maliseet making camp, c. 1864, Canadian Encyclopedia
Indigenous to the Saint John River Valley, Maine, and Quebec's St. Lawrence River, the Maliseet fished and hunted these areas for thousands of years. They considered the Mi'kmaq their allies. Eventually the Maliseet turned to farming as well. They lived in wigwams in walled villages. They made tools out of wood, stone, and ceramics. Canoes, weapons and eating utensils were also created. The Maliseet have a rich cultural history, similar to the Mi'kmaq, such as decorating clothing and baskets with painted porcupine quills.

The Maliseet bands were governed by one or more chiefs who sat on tribal councils with representatives from each family.

Drums played an important part in their ceremonies and united their communities.


When the European settlers arrived, first the French in the 1600s, then the British in the 1700s, the natives has their agricultural territory on the river confiscated, and they were pushed to the less fertile parts of the country. In the nineteenth century, they were sent to Reserves, but later filed land claims to recoup their losses; some were successful.

While the Europeans tried to convert the natives to Christianity, many clung to their original beliefs. "Smudging" -- the burning of sweetgrass to cleanse the spirit -- is one. Their Creator, Gici Niwaskw, is not assigned a gender. The Creator formed the entire world, but taming the landscape is performed by the cultural hero, Gluskabe.
Gabriel Acquin, Maliseet hunter, c. 1866: Canadian Encyclopedia


Today their distinctive language is fading out, but efforts are being made to preserve their language and culture.
 
Source: Canadian Encyclopedia
 
To purchase On a Stormy Primeval Shore or my other novels at Amazon or All Markets: Click HERE

For further information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.

 

Saturday, May 25, 2019

The Wonder of Words by A.M.Westerling


Dialogue is one of the most useful tools an author has. You can use it to move the plot along because the characters tell what’s going to happen rather than the author. It happens in real time so it’s a nice change of pace. It presents information such as back story (one character talking to another.) It’s also useful as another means to develop conflict – one character arguing with another. However, as an author of historical romance, dialogue is an important tool to identify a character. Word usage and slang defines a person and consequently defines the era in which that character lives. 


When I write dialogue, I have my trusty Merriam Webster Tenth Edition Collegiate Dictionary by my side. (It’s a little frayed along the bottom, an indicator of how much I pull it off the shelf.)  


I use the dictionary to check when a word came into usage and for that you can blame my technical background on my obsession with details. For example, I wanted to use ‘poppycock’ in the book I’m working on now. It came into usage in 1865 which doesn’t work for my story as it’s set in 1800. 


Katherine Pym, co-author of Pillars of Avalon (along with Jude Pittman), Book 5 from the Canadian Historical Brides Collection, does a terrific job of using dialogue to define the era. Here’s an excerpt from the book:


“Aye.” Frances dashed some numbers along another line. “The warehouse is large, it only seems empty.” She regarded Sara with a smile. “You’ve done very well provisioning the fleet. Do not think otherwise.” Something caught her eye. “Oiy, you there, where’s the other barrel of wine? I shall not have any thievery committed under our very noses.” Waving her ledger, she advanced sharply on a fellow carrying a cask upon his shoulder.
“What does you want, young lass?” he snarled at her. “Shouldn’t you be home with thy mamma, eating mashed gruel?”
Frances’ back stiffened and Sara knew the man would regret his impertinence. “I beg your pardon? Do you have an incontinent liver that needs correction? I shall call the Watch and have you carried away for rude and disorderly behaviour.” She leaned forward and hissed. “It will surely happen. Now, answer me truthfully. Where’s the other cask of wine?”


Reading this, you know it’s not a contemporary story. Words and phrases like oiy, thievery, thy mamma, mashed gruel, incontinent liver, call the Watch, suggest an earlier time period.

The following excerpt from Barkerville Beginnings, Book 4 of the collection shows another example of how speech defines a person. It’s obvious Robert McTague is a Scot by his word usage ie “me da’s croft” “ma’self” "nae" and his reference to Culloden as well as calling Harrison a “Sassenach”. 


Not only that, in talking to Harrison, Robert gives us a little information on Barkerville ie how many miners there were during the height of the Cariboo Gold Rush. As well, a  bit of back story for both characters is revealed ie Robert comes from a poor farmer’s croft and like most other miners has travelled a fair distance to get to Barkerville and Harrison knows a thing or two about horses. 


Harrison entered Mundorf Stables. “Hello,” he shouted, scanning the stalls. Most were empty and through the open double doors at the rear he noticed his mule team huddled together in the corner of the pen. Nancy, ears pricked forward, hung her head over the top rail, no doubt plotting her escape. At least they were here where he’d left them last night so it appeared the livery owner was a trustworthy sort. However, trustworthy enough to negotiate some sort of bargain remained to be seen.
A red-haired man with a full red beard wandered out from one of the stalls. Harrison recognized him as the fellow he’d shared his breakfast table with this morning.
A grin ripped through the man’s beard, revealing front teeth buckled together. “Well, look who’s here.” He gestured to the map under Harrison’s arm. “See you took my advice and went to the commissioner’s office.” He held out his hand. “We didn’t get around to exchanging names this morning. Robert McTague.”
The Scottish burr in his voice sounded out of place and Harrison knew from their brief chat at breakfast that the other man had also traveled halfway around the world to join in on Cariboo gold fever. He grasped Robert’s hand, giving it a good shake. The other man’s firm grip put Harrison at ease immediately.
“Harrison St. John. I made it there but I don’t know what to do now. Other than see to my livestock.” 
“I’m here doing the same thing ma’self. Rode in on my horse but he didn’t take too well to the trail. I’m resting him up for now and hoping for the best. Hate to shoot the beast although I hate to see him suffer too.”
“Been here long?”
Robert shook his head. “Maybe a week. But long enough to know this isn’t quite what I expected.” He laughed. “I’ve washed a few pans of gravel on some of the abandoned claims and only found enough gold dust ta pay for my food but I hate to give up. There’s naught for me back home.”
“Scotland?”
“Aye. Me da’s croft is full to bursting so I thought to make my own way in the world. From your accent, I’d wager you’re English.”
“Indeed. By way of Manchester.”
The other man chuckled. “Well, we won’t talk about Culloden, now will we?”
Harrison grinned. “No, I think not.” He pointed into the stall. “Is this the fellow you’re nursing?”
Robert’s face fell. “Aye. That’s Brutus.”
“I know a thing or two about horses. Let me take a look at him.” He ran his hands over the animal’s withers, flanks and on down its legs. “He feels sound enough. A bit bony perhaps but I’d give him another day or two of rest and some good feed before you decide anything.” The horse, a bay gelding, rubbed his nose against Harrison’s shoulder and for an instant he felt a pang of regret for the four he sold to finance his journey here. One day, he vowed, he’d have another set, equally as fine as the first.
“I’d thought the same. Time is the best healer.” Robert patted the horse’s nose.
“Do you know many people here? Have you met a fellow by the name of Edmund Chadwick?”
“Nae, can’t say that I have. But hearsay has it there’s upwards of ten thousand men here and up and around the hills. Could be he’s not made his way into town for some time. These miners can get caught up with the fever and not wanting to leave their claims unless necessary.” He clamped his lips, which made the hairs of his beard stand up around his mouth like a pin cushion, and regarded Harrison through narrowed eyes. “I’m looking for a partner. Two heads being better than one and all that. Until now, I haven’t met anyone I’m wanting to spend time with. But I’m thinking a Sassenach might be a good choice. You lot being pigheaded and all.” He chuckled and held out his hand again. “What do you think?”
“Partner? You don’t know anything about me.”
“You’ve a flair for horses and Brutus has taken to you, that’s good enough for me. And like I said, you Englishmen are pigheaded as far as I can tell. That’ll stand a man in good stead out here.”
Harrison stared at the other man’s outstretched hand. His first inclination was to decline the offer until he noted the trimmed, albeit dirty, fingernails and the calluses on Robert’s palm. The sign of honest labour. He raised his gaze and studied the other man’s face. Or rather, only his eyes and forehead seeing as how his unruly beard covered everything else including his neck.
Robert returned his gaze with guileless blue eyes. “Well?” he prompted.
Still Harrison didn’t reply. Here he was, in Barkerville, with a wagon full of supplies and nary an inkling of what to use them for. It might be helpful to have a partner, especially someone already familiar with what to expect. It made sense that the two would be stronger and more productive together. Besides, half of something was better than all of nothing.
He grabbed the Scot’s hand. “You’ve got yourself a partner. Where to now?”
“Let’s find a saloon. The whiskey out here is rotgut but ‘tis good enough to wet your whistle and raise a toast or two to God and country.” Robert chuckled. “And Cariboo gold.””


Dialogue makes the characters and story come alive!

You can find "Pillars of Avalon", "Barkerville Beginnings" and the rest of the Canadian Historical Brides Collection here: www.bookswelove.com/canadian-historical-brides 





Thursday, May 23, 2019

First Nations Pipe Ceremony over Okanagan Lake




 
Union of the Sacred Pipes ~

Reposted to honor of fellow author John Wisdomkeeper, who could use all of your thoughts and prayers during his time in hospital. 

In the hills around Okanagan Lake Valley is a place called Bear Creek.  As I hiked through these rocks, the echo of fast rushing water vibrated like thousands of flutes playing to the rushing waterfalls that all flowed into one giant lake.  One day I mediated on a large rock in the middle of the Creek - the only access being to jump a log jutting into the water.  Opening my eyes to father sky, I watched crows chase a golden eagle.  The eagle flowed upward in ever expanding circles, and the crows followed, but the eagle flew higher and higher.  A fine mist rose from the rocks and powerful medicine herbs waved in the gentle breezes.  The sweet smell of Lavender and the pungent tang of pine filled the air.  When I stopped and listened closely I heard the footsteps of the ancestors passing through the canyon - stepping from stone to stone - as they followed the game trails.
 
The People and The Spirits are not gone. Clothes have changed, 
but the soul of both is constant.

One day a white brother came to visit from Texas - a police officer - who loved the culture as I do, and wanted to share the pipe with some of the Native brothers.  We climbed a trail through a ravine of rocks to an old sacred clearing.  At the entrance to the clearing--a circle of rocks covered by moss and surrounded by juniper and Saskatoon bushes--we stopped and I offered tobacco, asking the ancestors to welcome our visitor.  The winds stopped, and a peace settled over the clearing, inviting our entrance.  We sat together, on the ground, waiting for some brothers who were pipe carriers to join us.

 One by one each brother showed up from his journey.  One brother traveled from a rain dance ceremony; another brother came from the sweet grass fields in Montana; a third brother came late, joking that as he had traveled the shortest distance he came on Indian time.  My friend from Texas offered a medicine bundle from his home region and asked for prayers for his family.  He explained that he had spent a lot of time studying and learning the culture of the Cheyenne, the Apache, the Arapaho and the Hopi nations, and to him it was a great honor to come to this sacred ground where lay the bones of ancestors who had traveled here before, and join with this group of pipe carriers for other Native nations.

Together we sat down in a circle and opened our medicine bundles.  Father sky peered over our circle like a bright blue blanket streaked with orange and fringed with white clouds. Wisps of white floated around us as the spirits of many ancestors, gathered around our group as we prepared to share the sacred pipes.

We began by filling our smudge bowls with sage and sweet grass, which we lit and fanned with eagle feathers until the smoke drifted towards Father Sky.  Each of us reached into the smoke and brushed our arms and legs and heads with smoke to cleanse the hardships of our travels and prepare ourselves for the ceremony.  The pipe carrier facing the North started the traditional song of offering to the ancestors, and one by one we joined into the song, lifting our voices to invite the ancestors to travel across the spiritual realm and join us in our ceremony.  As one, we bowed our heads in the circle, sharing prayers for our loved ones and the great nations, asking for blessings for all mother earth’s living and spiritual beings.  We offered prayers for the animal kingdom, the plant world and the mineral world.  The pipe carriers lifted their pipes, pointing the stems to each of the four sacred directions requesting blessing for the circle, and then the pipes were lit. As we passed the pipes, we shared the stories and teachings of our ancestors, and laughed together at the antics of trickster and the pranks he had played on our friends and elders over the years.


When we fell silent, each of us settled into the peace and harmony that had fallen over the sacred circle.  In the darkness the voices of a thousand crickets hummed in harmony, and beyond our circle the coyotes howled to the night spirits.  Grandmother moon rose into the sky and shone her light over our circle.

When the pipes were out, we packed our medicine bundles.  Standing, we joined hands, offered prayers for a safe journey for the travelers, and returned to each a hug of friendship and a common wish for a future reunion of the pipes.


John & Friend


John Wisdomkeeper
Sus' naqua ootsin'

Read John's personal story: 
Along the Red Road

Juliet Waldron's historical novels:

Friday, May 17, 2019

Apple Peels and Snails to Snare a Husband by Diane Scott Lewis


My Canadian Brides novel turns on a betrothal gone wrong. To celebrate May, I leave Canada and travel to England, and the serious search for a mate in the eighteenth century.

Folklore abounds in the villages of England around the single girl’s search for a husband—as in the eighteenth century marriage was what most young women had to look forward to, or they’d be ridiculed and regulated to spinsters, farmed out as governesses, or forced to live on the charity of their family.

Most of these search-for-true-love customs revolved around the seasons.

At the ruined Abbey of Cerne Abbas in Dorsetshire, girls flocked around the wishing-well in all seasons. To obtain their heart’s desire, they’d pluck a leaf from a nearby laurel bush, make a cup of it, dip this in the well, then turn and face the church. The girl would then “wish” for presumably a man she already has in mind, but must keep this wish a secret or it wouldn’t come true.

Other customs included, in Somersetshire on May Day Eve or St. John’s Eve, a lass putting a snail on a pewter plate. As the snail slithered across the plate it would mark out the future husband’s initials.

On another ritual to this end, writer Daniel Defoe remarked by saying: “I hope that the next twenty-ninth of June, which is St. John the Baptist’s Day, I shall not see the pastures adjacent to the metropolis thronged as they were the last year with well-dressed young ladies crawling up and down upon their knees as if they were a parcel of weeders, when all the business is to hunt superstitiously after a coal under the root of a plantain to put under their heads that night that they may dream who should be their husbands.”

Throwing an apple peel over the left shoulder was also employed in the hopes the paring would fall into the shape of the future husband’s initials. When done on St. Simon and St. Jude’s Day, the girls would recite the following rhyme as they tossed the peel: St. Simon and St. Jude, on you I intrude, By this paring I hold to discover, without any delay please tell me this day, the first letter of him, my true lover.

 On St. John’s Eve, his flower, the St. John’s Wort, would be hung over doors and windows to keep off evil spirits, and the girls who weren’t off searching for snails in the pastures, would be preparing the dumb cake. Two girls made the cake, two baked it, and two broke it. A third person would put the cake pieces under the pillows of the other six. This entire ritual must be performed in dead silence-or it would fail. The girls would then go to bed to dream of their future husbands.

On the eve of St. Mary Magdalene’s Day, a spring of rosemary would be dipped into a mixture of wine, rum, gin, vinegar, and water. The girls, who must be under twenty-one, fastened the sprigs to their gowns, drink three sips of the concoction, then would go to sleep in silence and dream of future husbands.

At All Hallows Eve, a girl going out alone might meet her true lover. One tale has it that a young servant-maid who went out for this purpose encountered her master coming home from market instead of a single boy. She ran home to tell her mistress, who was already ill. The mistress implored the maid to be kind to her children, then this wife died. Later on, the master did marry his serving-maid.

Myths and customs were long a part of village life when it came to match-making.

In my novel, On a Stormy Primeval shore, which takes place in eighteenth-century Canada, Amelia is slated to wed one man (a match made by her father), but refuses him, and through no effort of her own, the perfect man comes along in the guise of Gilbert, an Acadian trader. A bear is involved...



A short blurb:

In 1784, Amelia sails to New Brunswick, a land overrun by Loyalists escaping the American Revolution, to marry a soldier whom she rejects. Acadian Gilbert fights to preserve his heritage and property—will they find love when events seek to destroy them?
 
To purchase On a Stormy Primeval Shore or my other novels at Amazon or All Markets: Click HERE

For further information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.


Source: English Country Life in the Eighteenth Century, by Rosamond Bayne-Powell, 1935.

Thursday, April 25, 2019

A Trip to Tucson by A.M.Westerling


Okay, so Tucson doesn’t really have anything to do with Barkerville and the Canadian brides collection other than there was a fair bit of mining in the area about the same time as the Cariboo Gold Rush. Silver and copper mostly and gold later on once Arizona opened up a bit more.


So why Tucson? My sweetie and I head south every March to get away from the Canadian winter. Actually, it’s not that we mind winter so much, it’s that Calgary simply doesn’t have a spring! March is dreary, brown and interminable so although we don’t do the full on snowbird thing, we do spend 5 or 6 weeks touring the southwestern U.S. to get away from it. We don’t plan anything other than we know we’ll hit the I15 which is a straight run south for us. Usually the road is pretty clear but we hit a snow storm this year in Montana. 







Once we reach Las Vegas, we sit and thaw out for a few days then start watching the weather to decide where to go next. It was a cold spring everywhere this year so we drove further south than we usually do and ended up in Oro Valley, on the northern outskirts of Tucson. Tucson is a great spot, with lots of interesting things to see and do plus it’s not a mega city like Phoenix and area which suits us perfectly. 


We tend to visit railroad museums wherever we go and Tucson was no exception. The original train station is right in the heart of the city and has a small museum plus a vintage steam locomotive. 




Why railroad museums? My husband is a model railroad enthusiast and of course I love any kind of history so win win! Anyway, you always discover something new when you’re out and about and imagine my surprise to discover that Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday shot and killed a fellow by the name of Frank Stilwell in revenge for the death of Wyatt’s brother Morgan. Where? In Tucson’s train depot! A bronze statue commemorates the event. That worried look on my face? Those fellows have rifles pointed at me!







Of course I’d heard of both Earp and Holliday which is why it surprised me to learn they’d been in Tucson all those years ago. Little tidbits like that really bring history to life for me and as I stood on the railroad platform, I could just imagine the men laying in wait for Stilwell. I could imagine the horrified gasps and whispers of onlookers, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, the dry smell of dust, and the slowly spreading crimson stains on Stilwell’s clothes. (You can read more about it here: https://www.historynet.com/stilwell-shooting-near-tucson-depot-called-quick-vengeance-murder.htm)


I did the same thing the various occasions I visited Barkerville. I wandered the wooden sidewalks and imagined the town as it might have been 150 years ago. I imagined the streets crowded with wagons, mules and cattle, the smell of wood smoke, the clang clang of the black smith’s hammer, the thump of boots on the walkways, the shouts of joy from miners who struck it bit, and the sobs and groans from those who didn’t.


Anyhow, as a writer of historical romance and fiction, my goal is to bring history to life for my readers. I try and envision life as it might have been for my characters, a kind of time travel if you will. If I can take you back to a different era, then I feel I’ve accomplished my goal.


~~~~~~~~ 


Find Barkerville Beginnings at your favourite online store here:  

https://books2read.com/u/bQB6Mv