Chapter 5: Recovery and Memorial

The meeting in the Kaslo Legion Hall on Monday, July 23, was held to update the public about the work being done, road repairs, site safety and next steps. People poured in and clustered around poster-sized aerial shots of the landslide pinned to the wall. Paul rolled his wheelchair alongside us, and beckoned to Bob Stair, his old mountain-climbing buddy, who was pacing up and down at the back. Paul asked Bob how things were going. Bob gave a thumbs-up sign and lowered his voice. “I got it. I got permission this afternoon.” We congratulated him. “I had a hard time juggling the budget, but everyone wanted to make this happen. People volunteered their time and now the cost looks reasonable.” Bob’s perseverance, and his contacts in the Coroners Service, had paid off.

He was the first to address the crowd and told us he was making final preparations; his team would be back at work first thing in the morning. The audience cheered. Bob then apologized for leaving. Applause, calls of encouragement and good wishes followed him out.

The logistical operation that had been going on in Johnson’s Landing over the past ten days was enormous. The road had been rebuilt using a huge culvert, with a two-and-a-half-metre diameter, brought in from Vancouver. Electricity and phone services had been restored to all but one inhabited household. Geomorphologists were examining the mountainside to try to understand how the landslide had happened and predict future danger.

The most urgent priority for residents on the south side of the Landing was a reliable water supply. The water intake lines and distribution box had been destroyed and it would cost a great deal of money to establish a new water system for the thirteen out of eighteen households that remained habitable.

People in Kaslo donated jugs and bottles of water from the first day, thanks, in part, to the community Facebook page, which allowed individuals travelling north to post meet-up times for water donation. Andy Shadrack had delivered a flat of bottled water to the community hall. Lake water was pumped into tanks and trucked to people’s houses. But these fixes were only temporary. Kootenay Joe Farm needed water for crop irrigation and for the animals. Extensive vegetable gardens sustained homesteads year-round. The rain had ceased, the summer sun was beating down and the hillside was drying out fast. Soon it would be forest fire season.

The next day, Bob led a team that included Kaslo Search and Rescue manager Bruce Walker, RCMP corporal Chris Backus, local excavator-operator Duncan Lake and Larry Badry of the BC Ambulance Service. They excavated at the Webbers’ house for two full days. One month exactly after Rachel’s seventeenth birthday, on Wednesday, July 25, at around six p.m., they found her body a short distance away from where her father and sister were found.

Afterwards, Corporal Chris Backus expressed deep admiration for Bob’s diligence each time human remains were uncovered. “Bob would stop the heavy machinery and get in with hand tools. It was like a very delicate archaeological dig. The bodies were long deceased but Bob treated them with the utmost dignity. He recovered each one as if they were his own kin.”

In a press release, Lisa Lapointe paid tribute to all who had assisted the recovery mission. “Special thanks must go to all the volunteers from Kaslo Search and Rescue and their manager Bruce Walker, to the local ambulance, fire and RCMP members, our colleagues at Emergency Management BC, and to forensic analyst Bob Stair, who pinpointed with such accuracy the best locations to search… Additionally, we would like to thank the people of Kaslo and surrounding areas for the support and many kindnesses they demonstrated throughout the search effort.”

Lapointe reluctantly confirmed that no further efforts would be undertaken to try to locate Petra Frehse’s body. A sizeable excavation had been completed at the site of her former residence, but “due to the catastrophic impact of the slide at that site, the experts have concluded that there is no reasonable likelihood of locating her.”

Later, Bob Stair told me that, in his opinion, the four victims died instantly. He explained that a landslide isn’t like an earthquake, where people sometimes survive in pockets of safety under the wreckage of houses. A debris-flow landslide deposits material and rolls over the top of it. In a moment, the victims would have been knocked flat to the ground and buried. Very few seconds elapsed between the thunder of the slide’s descent (likened by witnesses to the roar of a 747 jet) and its impact on the Webber house. The family probably had no more than twenty seconds to react, and Petra even less. Val and Diana’s bodies were found outside on what had been the grass, in the lee of the house, where they had likely sought shelter. Rachel lay nearer to the front of the house.

The memorial for Petra Frehse and Val, Diana and Rachel Webber took place in the Argenta Community Hall the afternoon of Saturday, July 28.

An osprey soaring over Argenta would see an unpaved gravel road that climbs steeply, then hairpins back on itself, cutting a line through the trees across the lower flank of Mount Willett. Homesteads mostly lie tucked away in the woods, out of sight of the road. Straw bale and stucco, cedar and rough plywood—every kind of habitation appears there, from shacks and pre-fabs to yurts and vaulted timber-frame log palaces. Each property has its patch of cleared ground for vegetables and flowers. Some have ponds and meadows. Workshops, pottery kilns and chicken coops hide among the trees.

It’s hard to believe that over a hundred people live in Argenta: three times the population of the Landing. Farmers like Vince McIntyre, who ploughs with horses and grows our winter root vegetables. Quiet forest folk like the elderly Quakers, who light a fire in the hearth of the Friends Meeting House every Sunday morning and welcome all comers to silent worship.

This sunny Saturday afternoon, the air was filled with birdsong and the scent of drying hay. Sylvan trundled down the road on his tractor, seated in a perfect lotus pose, his long grey hair parted in two neat braids that framed his boyish face. His machine rattled past the Argenta post office, a rough-hewn shed next to the hall—a humble building maybe, but the beating heart of the community. A pair of young men in dreadlocks sat on a bench outside, under the notice board, whittling wood. The board displayed rain-smudged, handwritten notes that advertised fresh eggs, hay bales, work wanted, ride shares to Nelson and calls to oppose the development of the Jumbo Glacier ski resort.

The door of the post office opened and three small beige and white goats trotted out, their dainty hooves clicking like stilettos on the wooden boardwalk. A voice bellowed after them: “And stay out!” David Herbison, the postmaster, had opened up the office as a favour to someone who wanted their mail, even though it was Saturday. Usual business days were Monday, Wednesday and Friday. David gathered the goat-nibbled flyers off the floor, stood up and caught the strains of a song that drifted out of the hall’s open doorways. His fine tenor voice took up the refrain and crooned in harmony with Frank Sinatra.

Two young women in Indian cotton dresses, babies slung on their backs, laughed and clapped at David’s rendition, then stepped around the goats and peeped inside the hall. Argenta’s hall is much larger than the one in Johnson’s Landing. Built, enlarged and refurbished by the community over many years, the building had lately been re-roofed in red steel, with acoustic baffles installed on the ceiling to reduce the echo in the cavernous main room. Music of all kinds, and the recording of music, is important in Argenta. The hall easily accommodates a medium-sized orchestra, a production of Gilbert and Sullivan, a square dance for eighty, basketball, soccer, yoga, craft fairs, community events—and sombre gatherings such as the memorial.

People began to collect in the simple kitchen and dining area. Covered dishes of food accumulated on the counter. Two women, purposeful and efficient, prepared urns of coffee and boiled water for tea. A bearded man with elaborate tattoos across his naked back checked the small bathroom behind the kitchen, put out extra toilet paper and taped a sign to the wall, warning users to be gentle with the dodgy plumbing.

Downstairs, all was quiet. A wood-burning furnace stood cold and idle. It heated the building in winter, when people gathered in the cozy basement library for preschool, evening classes or just to socialize or read. Its well-stocked shelves, thanks to Ann MacNab and many other volunteers, held an imaginative selection of volumes and films on wide-ranging subjects. Unexpected in a tiny place like this, you might think—until you understood the ethos of Argenta. People home-schooled their children and avoided conventional medicine. Most lived off the land and grew their own food. They treasured their library.

It was cool inside the main hall, with all doors standing open to admit the gentle breeze. Lynn Migdal had arrived early with Margie, Lila and several other young friends. Memorial tables at the back of the room displayed photos, teddy bears, books and flowers in the glow of lighted candles.

Lynn had turned up the volume, and the room throbbed to the deep, sexy tones of Frank Sinatra. She’d found the music cassette in the garage, the one building untouched by the slide. The cassette held many family favourites, including songs by the Beatles, Joni Mitchell and Carole King.

Christopher and I also arrived early. I gave Lynn a big hug and said how sorry I was for everything that had happened. Lynn greeted me with a smile. She was wearing a simple black dress adorned with a heavy silver brooch and a colourful shawl. Her face was deeply lined, yet she appeared to be bearing up well, and almost exuberant, as people deep in the manic madness of grief so often are—dancing to the music, laughing with her daughters’ friends as they dressed the walls with photographs and laid garlands of calendula flowers around the framed pictures on the tables. I knew from my work with bereavement clients for the hospice that her euphoria would pass.

The crowd swelled. The people came! On foot, by bicycle, even on horseback. And not just from Argenta and the Landing. A neatly parked line of shimmering metal stretched away on both sides of the road for nearly a kilometre. People trudged the hot dusty road from ever more remote parking spots, in muddy hiking boots, bare feet, homemade sandals, Nike trainers and leather court shoes. Kate O’Keefe and Harvey Armstrong from the Landing. John and Jillian Madill, now staying at Ann MacNab’s house in Howser. Greg Utzig and Donna MacDonald from Nelson. Bill Wells and ML Thomson from Kaslo. Gail and Lynne, Roger and Carol, Kurt and so many others. Media people in a white van lurked outside in the sun, fishing for interviews, but were politely rebuffed.

The congregation climbed the wooden steps, greeted friends, shooed away various excited dogs that ran in and out. They slipped inside, gratefully grabbed glasses of water from the kitchen, mopped their brows and circulated around the room, fanning themselves with the memorial card and looking at photos. Eventually they chose their seats and sat down. Chairs scraped on the floor. Everyone settled and a hush descended.

Latecomers stood in the doorways and along the porch. A sea of expectant faces gazed up at the microphones and at the huge bouquets of fresh-picked flowers in vases on the makeshift stage. A few people held hands. Others clutched tissues. Some were already crying.

The girls had planned a simple, moving “Celebration of Life.” Many people gave readings and shared remembrances. A slide show accompanied by Lynn’s music cassette concluded the formal proceedings. The audience sighed over family snapshots of smiling faces; of children playing in the meadow and on the beach; the girls growing up into young adults; of Petra smiling sweetly against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains and sparkling lake. We mourned the four souls lost, and we mourned for Johnson’s Landing and its former loveliness.

The memorial ceremony was followed by a huge potluck meal. Everyone was ravenous; crying is exhausting work. We tucked into roast turkey, baked salmon, a lamb moussaka, chicken enchiladas, tofu, baked vegetables, devilled eggs and every imaginable salad. Then dessert. The kitchen clattered with activity, as empty platters were removed and new dishes emerged; there was more than enough to feed the enormous gathering.

When it was time to leave, Christopher negotiated out of the scrum of parked vehicles and we headed down the road. At the junction with Argenta Hill he automatically turned left, south towards Johnson’s Landing, then realized his mistake.