Hearth
6. Oh! Canada
On May 15th I was camping in a foreign country for the first time. But they spoke the same language and their money was beautiful. I spent the night at Bamberton Provincial Park, north of Victoria on Vancouver Island. At this date and latitude the Sun set at about 8:45 p.m. Georgia caught her second mouse, a Canadian, so she became an international mouser.
As I worked my way up the east shore of Vancouver Island, I eventually reached a latitude beyond which I had never been before. It was approximately opposite the City of Vancouver on the mainland. The east side of the Vancouver Island is a favored area for climate because it is protected by the bulk of the Island from the North Pacific weather. The west side of the Island is an entirely different story. The Georgia Strait lies between the Island and the mainland and marks the beginning of what is known as the inside passage. The east shore is replete with small, picturesque resort communities. My second stop in Canada was at Miracle Beach Resort.
A conflict had developed between Georgia and me. She liked campsites that were closed in and forested, while I liked those that had a long view or next to water, especially if I was paying for it. Georgia didn’t want to be next to water in any form or flavor. It’s a good thing I was driving or we would have been in the bushes all the time.
When I checked in, the little old lady in the office told me I could have any spot along the shore except the last three which were reserved for a motorcycle gang. I guess my eyebrows must have elevated slightly, because she hastened to add that there was no need to worry, this particular gang “rides for a Christian organization.” The way she phrased that intrigued me. What does that entail? I pondered that for some time. Do Christian motorcycles make less noise? I’m sure she meant that I need not fear for my personal safety from a gang that “rides for a Christian organization.” I tried to think of some other group that phrase might describe. The crusaders sprang to mind. How safe were you if the crusaders were camped nearby?
I selected a spot and then walked around exploring the area. It was low tide and a large flat was exposed off shore. I found a number of sand dollars. They were still alive and covered with a short purple fur that looked like velvet. I realized up till that time I had only seen dead ones.
Later, the motorcycle gang arrived. I had to confess that their rides did seem quieter, and they were entirely unobtrusive, almost bland. The opposite kind of gang might have been more interesting to observe . . . from a distance.
I arrived at the north end of Vancouver Island to camp for the night in another rain forest, and, surprise! . . . it was not raining. A large campground, it was near Telegraph Cove a short distance from Port Hardy where I was due to catch a ferry at 7:30 a.m. the next day. Only about three campsites were occupied. Moss on the forest floor was so lush that it felt like you were walking on a pile carpet about a foot thick. I explored a nearby abandoned sawmill which was literally falling down. Then I built a campfire and cooked outside. It was a pleasant change because rain had been keeping me inside the van much of the time. Georgia saw her first bear that day. It crossed the road in front of us. I slowed for a good look. The bear slowed for a good look. Georgia was riveted.
The days were noticeably longer at that latitude, about 50 degrees N. It is interesting to note this is about the same latitude as London, England. We were also on an island just as London is, the weather is probably fairly similar, and this was British Columbia so where was everybody?
After dinner as I stared into the campfire I reflected on how long human beings have been doing just that. For perhaps several hundred thousand years our cousins many, many times removed, stared into fires. The fire was home long before it was enclosed in any kind of structure. The area around the home fire, or the hearth, was where all family activity took place. To this day any proper home has a fireplace and hearth; it connects us through eons and eons with the human family.
My next stop in Canada was Prince Rupert on the mainland where I was to connect with the Alaskan ferries. The town of Prince Rupert had a “hard times” look. An economically depressed minority of native Canadians was rather apparent and they were not picturesque. The setting is beautiful but the land was being trashed by individuals and industry. I tried to find a place to hide the van in the surrounding countryside, but every little nook or logging road that looked promising, upon further investigation, revealed someone’s personal garbage dump with abandoned cars and other junk shot full of bullet holes.
A coalition of government and private enterprise seemed intent upon destroying every inch of natural shoreline. Fortunately they have a lot of it. Pulp paper mills made the whole area smell bad, and the overlooks along the highways featured industrial parks that were real eyesores. Driving around the residential areas I noticed a large number of “For Sale” signs. Apparently all that development hadn’t helped much. An impressive new “Center for the Performing Arts” was under construction downtown that promised to add “a touch of class,” but one wondered about local priorities.
I ended up at the city run campground where all the campers that were making ferry connections congregated. At the center was a green, a lawn where ravens collected and waited for food scraps to be donated by the travelers. When Georgia saw the birds she started off confidently in their direction probably intent on scattering the flock. But something was not quite right, these birds didn’t panic. Not only that they were big, taller than her, and they were solid black with beady yellow eyes. When they saw her coming they turned to face her and closed ranks as if to say “Hey here’s some fun! Come on guys, we can take this cat.” Georgia froze, whirled around, and beat a hasty retreat back to the van. I can’t say I blame her; they looked ominous—shades of Alfred Hitchcock.
Later that evening the word spread that tomorrow’s ferry had experienced mechanical problems and had to be towed to Seattle for repairs. The next ferry wasn’t scheduled until Saturday. “Oh no, another two days here!” But just after midnight a representative of the Alaskan Marine Ferries woke me to say they had been able to divert another ferry to Prince Rupert, and if I could get to the terminal in about an hour I could get on board to Ketchikan. Suddenly the whole campground came to life in the middle of the night. Everybody was intent on making that ferry. It finally got underway about 3:00 a.m.. I didn’t get much sleep that night.
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