I have finally found real Peace -- the river that is. Fed by lakes in the mountains of Northern BC, it flows East into Alberta and then North to the Great Slave lake, which in turn feeds into the Mackenzie River. After four days of travel, I am back in the enormous Mackenzie River Basin, having left it in the middle of the Dempster Highway.

The tranquility of the Valley of the Peace brought it home . I am out of the North for good. The continuous spruce forest has opened up. Small farms with fields of wheat and rape and hay are the norm. One sees cattle and sheep and horses -- clearly not afraid of being eaten by bears and wolves.   The temperature was in the high 70's -- hot ! The small towns don't all depend on tourism. Most have an industrial base, with wood mills and petroleum drilling and gas processing the main culprits. The drop in petroleum prices has affected the region apparently, with many losing their jobs. They will be back, I am sure.

Along the Alaska Highway NW of Fort St. John I drove through an area that had been hit by a forest fire. What was striking were the deep red patches of fireweed that had grown back beneath the charcoal black trees.   The red was most dense where the fire was hottest, I was told by a man whose home stands at the edge of the burn. I had stopped to talk and he told me how the fire had come down the road last April, from six miles West . He had been a contractor, and had a bunch of tractors and fuel tanks standing high overhead in his compound. He had been evacuated, but came back to see if he could save anything.   When the fire was at his doorstep, he said, the firefighters from the Forestry Department in Prince George showed up, set up pumps and sprinklers and worked all day to save his house. They succeeded. The fuel tanks are still intact. He loves those firefighters.

When I mentioned where I lived he said: "I have been down there in the lower 48 and I won't go there again. Too many people.   I'm 70 now. I like my hunting and my fishing and my life right here."

The small town of Chetwynd where I am now is typical, and attractive. Spread out along highway 97, it has a wood mill in back, the other side of the tracks. A large number of fracking tankers are lined up along the highway to spend the night. There is a clear pride in the town.   The shops and hotels are set back 50 to 100 yards from the main road, leaving an area which has been decorated with trees and flowers, a lawn, a paved path and chairs. In addition, the decorations include large wooden carvings (larger than life) produced at the Chain Saw Carving Contest which is held here every year.