Keith Biggins

Patrick.

It was a swelteringly hot day along the sun-scorched banks of the Similkameen River. Forest fires burned to the north and south, creating a grungy orange haze over the entire valley. I sat on a log, stoned off my face, plucking a banjo and watching a pack of stray-looking dogs frolic in the water below. It was here at the ramshackle campsite of Dusty and Dusty (two BFFs, both named Dusty) that I’d posted up for the afternoon to drink warm beer and mingle with a community of transient fruit pickers in Keremeos, B.C.

My Dad escaped to Keremeos 15 years ago to become an amateur farmer and pursue his dream of living a neighbourless life. For as long as I can remember, my visits to the Ol Man’s place have consisted of crucial daily trips to the liquor store and participating in the weekly meat raffle at the Veteran’s Hall. On this particular trip however, during the first week of July, I thought I should break this thrilling routine and actually do something.

Most commonly remembered as “that place we stopped for gas”, Keremeos is renowned for its lush orchards, sprawling vineyards and abundance of fruit stands. Each one painted and decorated more cartoonishly than the next, by what could have been the set designers from Sesame Street. More memorable, however, than its colourful and fruity main drag are “The Pickers”; the dreadlocked, glazed-eyed, thumbs-out seasonal labourers that swarm the town in the summer. Mostly Québécois, these itinerant hippies hitch-hike from far and wide, looking to make some cash and score sweet B.C. bud.

Guillaume. 

I continued trekking through the campground amongst a fluorescent scattering of tents and hanging laundry. Soon I arrived at what appeared to be the “downtown”, a big open space with a large concentration of people milling around and enjoying chill activities. To my left was the “Italian District”, a cluster of shaved-headed Guido-ish pickers, some strumming guitars, others carving sticks. The local hash dealer, a teenager of 70’s Ozzy Osbourne resemblance, zipped by on a rusty children’s mountain bike making deliveries and taking orders. Beneath a tarp to my right, a stick n’ poke tattoo marathon was taking place. I spent the rest of the afternoon taking portraits while getting sunburned and reasonably faded. And despite my clean clothes and  recent haircut, I tried to blend in.

Vern. 

That evening I drove out to River Valley Farm, a small organic orchard in the hills east of town. I’d planned to reunite with an eclectic crew of hyper French-Canadian teenagers I’d met earlier that day. At the time, being the people-person that I am, cleverly wrote all of their names on my hand for future reference: Félix, Gabrielle, Leo, Tristan, Godfrey, Guillaume, Kiki, Félix 2, Charlotte, Patrick, Daphne, Vern. 

Audrey PrettyWoman Chanel. Fort McMurray, AB 

Explaining to the guys at work that I was taking a week off to travel to Fort Mac simply to "hang out and take pictures of strangers" left them astonished and bamboozled. Once referred to as a town best experienced "as a disappearing sight in your rear-view mirror never to return again" it's understandable that a person might avoid such a frigid and frenzied boomtown as a destination of leisure. 

Fort McMurray was stressful and annoying, I won't lie, but yet it was somewhat exciting to finally make a pilgrimage to this famous and controversial "shit hole" and to experience it myself. I spent the week sleeping in my truck while parked behind a shipping container in the parking lot of the MacDonald Island Hockey Arena. During the day I explored the town in search of characters and personalities: Mingling with rednecks at the Newfie sports bar, tromping through the snowbanks of the Tower Road mobile home park, chatting with Filipino cleaning ladies while on their lunch break at the Lebanese pizza parlour.