Appendix A TEX VERNON-WOOD
Recollections by his grandson, John R. Gow
BACK TO THE FARM
AFTER HIS WIFE JOAN’S death in the early 1960s, Tex went east to live with his son Bill and daughter-in-law Choukie [Christina], who were stationed at Trenton, Ontario with the RCAF. Both father and son remained keen outdoors people, often making fishing trips into the hills north of Trenton and Kingston, around the headwaters of the Mississippi River.
On one such trip, they were driving along a concession road through Ontario farmland, when Tex suddenly said, “Take the next road to the right.” Bill complied, and made a few more turns as directed. No explanation for this route was given, until Tex directed, “Stop here!” They were at the turnoff to a typical Ontario farm. A lane ran a hundred yards up to a brick house; behind was an unpainted barn, all surrounded by tilled fields. A man, probably in his early seventies, was working in a nearby field.
“This is the farm I worked at when I first arrived in Canada,” Tex said, “and it looks pretty much the same.”
Tex went on to recount how, as a callow English youth, perhaps eighteen years of age, he had left England for good, looking for opportunity and freedom in Canada. His first job, lasting for the best part of a year, was on this farm in Ontario.
As the only hired hand on a farm at the turn of the century, young Nello Vernon-Wood was treated pretty much as a member of the family. He lived in the same house, ate at the same table. The farmer and his wife had three children, two daughters and a son. The boy, youngest in the family, was about ten.
Along with his farm work, one of Nello’s duties was to harness up the shay and take the lady of the house and the three children into church each Sunday. No record exists as to whether he himself graced a pew; a dubious proposition. At any rate, without the distractions of radio, television, and beyond, he came to know the family well.
Bill and Tex parked the car, and they walked up the lane. The farmer made his way over and greeted them.
Tex looked at this farmer, perhaps a decade younger than himself, and said, “I ‘11 bet you don’t remember me. The farmer took a hard look and said, “Not yet, but keep talking and I will.” The conversation carried on, mostly about the possibilities of fishing in the area, but not a hint of the past.
The conversation carried on for five minutes or so, when the farmer suddenly interjected, “You’re the Englishman who worked here back when I was a boy. When was that? Ought two, ought three?” There was little doubt in this farmer’s mind as to whom he was speaking, in spite of a gulf of sixty years.
“I am indeed,” Tex replied, “and it was ought three.”
Bill and Tex were invited up to the house. Both sisters, now widows with grown families, had returned to live out their years with their bachelor brother on the family farm, both remembering Tex warmly.
WHISKEY AND VENISON
AT SOME TIME IN the Twenties, Tex was on a pack trip up Simpson Pass, west of Banff near the present day Sunshine Village. Any hunting to be done would have to be on the British Columbia side of the pass, but the best camping was beside a small alpine lake, just on the Alberta side, in Banff National Park. Within the Park of course, hunting was strictly off limits.
The main quarry, Bighorn Sheep, were usually found on the shoulder of the Monarch, an imposing mountain just west of the pass, but were now proving elusive. The dudes were restless; the camp low on meat.
Riding back into camp one afternoon, Tex spotted a buck deer across a clearing, no further invitation needed. The fact that they were some yards east of A.O. Wheeler’s newly installed concrete monument, which marked at once the Continental Divide, the Provincial border, and the Park boundary, was a trivial detail to hungry men. After all, a few minutes ago, the same deer was probably a hundred yards to the west and fair game. Semantics mattered less than dinner.
An hour later, the buck was butchered and out of sight when Bill Neish, the district Park Warden rode into camp. Bill was on his fall boundary patrol, intended to ensure that hunters contained their sport to the west of the Park Boundry. His attention was likely drawn to a single gunshot that sure seemed to come from within his territory.
Seeing that it was Tex, Bill relaxed. They were, after all, good friends in Banff, and Tex a respected member of the community. Soon the coffee pot was on, and steaming mugs poured around the fire.
“A shot? No I didn’t hear anything around here,” Tex replied to Bill’s query. “We haven’t seen a damn thing around here. Getting a little hungry, but of course we wouldn’t touch anything in the Park.”
Bill knew BS when he heard it.
“You know Tex, I’ve got a bottle of whisky back at my camp. It would go down pretty well right now, but it would go a hell of a lot better with some venison.”
Tex wasn’t about to bite that easily, but nor was Bill to be deterred. Several times the conversation bounced right back to Bill’s bottle of hootch, and how good it would be with a little venison. Finally Tex figured that about then dinner was more important to Bill than law enforcement.
“Goddamn, Bill, this had better not be one of your tricks. Get your damn bottle and I’ll get cooking.”
As the bottle emptied, and the venison sizzled, the exact location of Wheeler’s monument in relation to this particular deer’s last breath lost all importance!
TEX
YOUNG ENGLISHMEN, arriving to work on the ranches of Alberta early in the 20th century, had more than their share of adapting to do. Their dandified dress, gentrified manners, and plummy accents all worked against them. Young Vernon-Wood had a lot more than most to shake. His name. God, it couldn’t have been worse. Not only did he have the curse of a double barreled, hyphenated-up last name, his given name was a true curse.
Nello.
Sounded like Nelly, shortened to Nell, and was hell for an aspiring cowboy on this last frontier. After all, men were men, and some sissified version of a girl’s moniker was not going to work. It was not a subject that Grandad was particularly fond of talking about, and has become the stuff of conjecture or family legend. There are two credible stories as to how Nello became Tex.
The simplest has it that when Nello applied for his first job on a ranch, not far from Medicine Hat, the foreman allowed as how there might be a cowboy’s job open. “What’s your name?”
There was a silence as the erstwhile range rider considered his future.
“Tex,” he said, “my friends call me Tex.”
An alternative version was passed on to me by Tex’s son, Bill Vernon-Wood, and has more currency with me.
When upper-class young Englishmen hit Alberta, resplendent in tweeds and bowlers, they stuck out like sore thumbs. In an environment where some employers posted signs reading, “Englishmen Need Not Apply,” those who needed work knew that they’d best blend in, fast.
Most hied themselves down to the Western Wear shop, where, badly advised by avaricious merchants, they decked themselves out in outlandish garb, more London stage than foothills sage. They paraded up and down the streets of Calgary, Lethbridge, and Medicine Hat in their frontier garb, true “Drugstore Cowboys.”
Nello was no dandy, but working on a ranch near Medicine Hat, he badly needed a pair of chaps—the leather leggings that save a cowboys legs from being shredded in the bush or against barbed wire fences—which were an essential piece of ranch equipment. He bought a pair of the latest, greatest in protective fashion, known as “Texas Chaps.” Back at the ranch, Nello was quickly nicknamed “Texas,” which just as fast was abreviated to Tex. “Nello” was seldom, if ever, heard again!
TO SIMPSON PASS WITH BILL PEYTO
IN MARCH ONE YEAR, Tex headed up to Simpson Pass with Bill Peyto, the legendary Banff packer, who had a trapline and cabin on the pass. The trip up Healey Creek was arduous, and Tex, the younger of the two, arrived at the cabin some time ahead of Peyto.
Simpson Pass is deep snow country, and trapper’s cabins were built with a trap door on the roof to afford winter access. Tex set to work clearing the snow off the roof, and had the trapdoor open, set to jump down into the cabin, when Peyto came steaming into the clearing.
“Tex, stop!” He yelled. “Don’t do that!”
Puzzled, Tex waited while Peyto rummaged around beside the cabin for a chunk of firewood. He carried it onto the roof and very deliberately held it over the open trap door. When the wood dropped into the dark cabin, it hit with a loud metallic clang, the sound of a very large bear trap slamming shut.
Tex peered down into the gloom of the cabin, and saw the firewood gripped in the jaws of the largest leghold trap around, right where he was about to land.
“Jesus, Bill, what did you put that there for?
Peyto grunted. “Goddamned Harrison, he’s been coming up here and stealing my grub. Figured that would slow him down some!”
Source: Bill Vernon-Wood
Source: Tex Vernon-Wood