Salmon are Sacred, Sontuila is Special...

As we form an assembly line down the slippery seaweed covered rocks, the boat gets loaded on something called Paul Spong time (PST), and a hasty departure is made from Hanson a few minutes later. Wow, what an amazing time it has been on this paradise island that Paul and Helena have called home for so many years. So much to learn, so quickly the time goes, I know we will be back soon and ready to assist in the many labours of love this place entails. For now I just appreciate the adventure we are on, and their willingness to help us in any and every way they can. The relaxing time we spent has left us with massive grins as we make a very choppy b-line for Alert Bay to collect our bikes and set off on the next leg of the journey.

We arrive in Sointula at 1:30 pm and leave at 4:30pm the same day, feeling like we spent a year getting to know the town and its wonderful people. Down to the very last second before boarding the ferry, we are welcomed and gifted by every person we meet. Starting with Will Salto, who comes into The Living Oceans Society (on his day off!) to walk us through the proposed tanker route and the tides, currents, and hazards that would be potential threats. Wow, what a greater understanding we gain, it’s suddenly all a lot more real and the Northern waters feel closer than ever. 

A Wifi mission to the library throws us back in time, into the Museum, and we discover what looks like a collection of everybody’s best basement findings. Ferry reservation fast approaching, we take off on our horses, never having appreciated modern technology’s convenience so much before now.

We are only meters from the ferry dock when we meet Pete, who offers us local wild Finish smoked salmon bellies. Pete is great, and leads us to his brother Dave’s house about a block up the street where we are welcomed by more Malcom Island originals, enjoying the sunshiney Friday afternoon. Dave is one of the passionate voices in the Salmon are Sacred campaign, led by Alex Morton, and tells us about the walk from Port Hardy to Victoria to raise awareness about the fish farming that is threatening the local salmon ecology. 

We board the ferry laughing and astonished at the jam packed few hours we just spent meeting some of the most helpful people of the trip. Of course, on the ferry we meet a few more characters, BC ferries’ very own James and Paul, who share with us their experiences of being on and around the waters, and pump us up with their cheer. We are laden with semi-frozen salmon as we make our way out of Port McNeill, one final stop at the Mackay’s to share our gifted salmon and thank them once more for their hospitality.

Late in the day as usual, we start down the last stretch of highway 19 towards Port Hardy, and into the golden sunset. We are headed to the ferry terminal at Bear Cove, a very suitable name from what we’ve heard along the trail. After we ride past three black bears, the bag of delicious salmon is becoming entirely too much like bait and we stop to have a picnic below the “(Welcome to) Port Hardy, Live the Adventure” sign. Oh yeah… we are living the adventure this summer, and we fall asleep under the stars ready for a 5am start to catch the ferry up the coast and begin the next leg of the journey!

Hanson

"ORCA! ORCCAAA!" the call skips across the crystalline cove and suddenly the scene is alive with people running from all directions towards the observation deck hanging out over the ocean. The rhythmic thu-thud-thu-thud of the axe stops, the wood dropped beside the chopping block; dinner preparations are abandoned - the whales are here! The bay is calm and the anticipation hangs heavy in the still air as the family of black fins slide into sight. They move with so much mystery, weaving through the current in the fading light.

I glance around at the group of people gazing through the scopes on the deck - they have all been brought here to Hanson Island by these giant sea-beings, some of them studying biology, others simply in love with animals. The Orcalab has been bringing people together from around the world for decades. The lab is perched on the same rocky outcropping Paul Spong first pitched his tent on in 1970, following the whale trail, after rejecting the idea that great wild beings can be studied from the confines of an aquarium tank. Out of a vision to study the whales in their natural environment based on listening and learning, the Orcalab has been slowly and carefully woven into the island around it.

Here and now, life orbits entirely around the whales - everywhere you walk a live-feed of sea sounds captured by a series of underwater microphones, plays. It is our first day here, and we have been blessed, visited by the orcas.

As the light dies, the rhythm of Hanson Island picks back up, with big smiles all around. We listen on the hydraphones to the calls, and their song is as mysterious as the dance earlier in the bay. Spiraling calls echo between the whales, eerie whistles that slip and scatter through the room, as I gaze into the flames in the wood heater. The spell cast by these great ocean voices lasts into the night, and hours are lulled away in the fire and song.

Paul is a grandfather who recently walked into my life, bringing with him a magical island, and a world of whales that sparked a deep passion for our oceans in me. It's up to us to speak up for the whales, the waters and all the creatures who have no voice in our human world, and to protect them from projects like the Enbridge Pipeline, so we can keep listening and learning to the voice of the wild.

www.orcalab.org
www.orca-live.net (to listen to the live-feed from the hydraphones)

Thank you so much Helena and Paul for your kind hospitality, great food, and happy spirits!

What Goes Up Must Come Down...

The climb out of Campbell River is long and hot, the road stretching ahead at a relentless incline. It's a bit of a shock after the sleepy island traffic of Quadra and Cortes to get back on the highway, with the summer crowd, loaded with boats, campers and giant trucks, barreling past us on their way to the beach. The further north we travel, the bigger the trucks seem to get - maybe it's just because we're thinking a lot about the oil industry, or because we're on bikes, but our collective addiction to the black gold has never seemed so alive.

Suddenly, just past Sayward, with a horrible hissssss, Tyese's back tire explodes, bringing us and our bikes to a standstill beside the road. The sun beats down on us as we survey the damage - the back tire has been torn by a rusty L-shaped chunk of metal on the shoulder. So, like true Canadians, we get out the roll of duct tape and patch the tire as best we can, and replace the shredded tube. We need a new tire, and Port McNeill is the closest town with a bike shop, so we pedal tentatively north, our wounded bike limping badly, the rest of the weight piled high on the other rat trap. It's obvious we won't make it the whole way with a duct tape patch, but as long as the back tire is still holding air, we're stubborn not to have to take a ride in one of the passing trucks. Eventually it's clear we're going to have to give in if we want to make it to Port McNeill before nightfall, and when a kind Port Hardy local offers us a ride as we rest beside a little waterfall trickling from the forest, we accept the ride. The drive in is a blur from the cab of the truck, we've become so used to the speed of a bicycle.

In Port McNeill, we stay with the Mackay family, who have been running a whale watching company in the area for more than thirty years. It feels so good to be landed after such a long day, but we realize quickly that somewhere in the chaos we lost our camera and all the campaign footage so far. The blown tire was intense, but its a temporary problem - losing the camera is harder to deal with. Bill and Donna are sympathetic, and entertain us with wild stories of life on the water. From calm sunny days watching huge pods of orcas spyhop and breach around the Niad, to life and death situations where the fate of a sinking boat, or a drowning sailor rests entirely on their ability to stay calm and act fast. 

It puts the whole day into perspective for us, we just have to let it go and hope that a kind stranger finds the camera and sends it back to us.

Stay calm, be brave, wait for the signs...

On the Edge

Spontaneous leaps of faith almost always lead to beautiful places, but this one leaves me breathless. After waking up in Campbell River with a killer hangover, and walking back into the heat wave, we take the advice of a kind passing stranger and choose to ferry over to Quadra Island rather than tackling Capital Hill - a six kilometer climb stretching between us and Sayward. Now, after a mad dash for the beach on our heavily loaded bikes, and an icy plunge into the crystal waves, we sit on the smooth sands of Rebecca Spit and eat an entire head of lettuce. Life is good.

In Quathiaski Cove, we speak to a local woman named Ingrid who tells us about the potential for tidal energy farms in Discovery Passage between Campbell River and Quadra. Becuase the tidal currents run from 7 - 10 knots and the slack tides are short, this is an ideal spot to gather renewable energy from the gravitational energy of the moon. I think about this as we drift to sleep beneath the stars - what's keeping us from making the transition into these types of sustainable energy?

Where water and fire meet, light blooms into colour and, on the stretch of water between Quadra and Cortes, we look up to a massive rainbow encircling the sun. It's exciting and reassuring to see the great spectrum in the sky - we've taken a chance stepping out of the planned itinerary, but it's clear that we're exactly where we're meant to be. 

A sign right off the ferry says "Manson's Landing 14km", but says nothing about the road that snakes up and down and around the contours of the rocky island, making it the longest 14km we've ridden so far. We arrive exhausted on the shores of Hague Lake, a stretching blue-green jewel surrounded in silky white beaches, and dive into the cool water. The farmer's market up the hill (everything seems to be up a hill on this island) is almost finished when we finally arrive, but we spend some time talking to the artisans and villagers gathered around a giant cedar tree in the center of the courtyard. The sense of community is strong here, and island children, on the daily adventure, fill the air with movement and laughter. 

The Cortes Natural Food Co-op across the street is a local meeting point, and we feast on slightly bruised bananas and almond butter on bread outside on the picnic tables and talk to passing islanders. Our project generates a lot of support in places like this - on an island, the people are inseparable from the ocean and the land, and the need to preserve this connection for kids of the future is very real.

We are offered a spot on the Cortes Community Radio station by Sean, the kind face behind the counter of the co-op, and arrange a live broadcast for tomorrow morning . We are swept up in a wild island jam that stretches into the night, alight with stories of the woods and their mystery, their monsters and magic. One of the old locals tells me about the spirit of Cortes, "we're living on the edge of it all", he says, "most people come here to escape from something, or to find something they have been missing - we're all in this place for a reason though, some of us just can't leave the edge once we've gotten a taste of it..." As we find our way through the dark on our bikes, the stories of the woods seem to stretch and grow before us, and I wonder what we came here to find. It feels like we're crossing a border of sorts, like we've walked into something that is growing and intensifying as we ride North. 

Waking up on the shimmering sands of Hague Lake, we run into the water before kicking it up one more Cortes hill to the radio station in the back of the community hall. Sean gives us time on air to talk about our journey, and tells us a little more about the creation of the funky radio station, overflowing with records and inspiration. This is the kind of place where people walk in afterwards to congratulate us on our interview and write an impromptu song about oil spills in the morning sun outside. Coffee in hand, it is good to know that spontaneous detours lead to places like this, islands full of music, and laughter and really good people.

Because after all, "if you're not living on the edge, you're just taking up space" - right?

When in Rome...

Waking up under a giant chestnut tree in Fanny Bay, I'm offered a fresh picked oyster with my morning coffee, now thats a coastal Canadian summer. A slippery mouthful of salty water makes me grateful for the abundance of the ocean, the oyster is great protein for the kilometers that lie ahead. This prompts me to go in search of my own loot, and soon I am asking locals in Union Bay where to find some fresh BC oysters. I'm told "well the sewage comes out here, and past there begins red tide, so in between those should be good - thats where my wife gets them..." This is my mission, and I have faith in the locals, so off I go. After an entire day spent stopping every so often to re-hydrate my sea friends with ocean water and ice, I feel accomplished. Today is supposedly the hottest of the week, and I feel a deep connection to the oysters that have traveled the 50km to Miracle Beach with us, in a heavy leaking plastic bag hanging off the back of my bike.

In a world where we are so used to grocery store convenience, I am grateful that we are still so able to forage our food from our backyards. And, gazing into the fire, with a deep appreciation for my salty supper, I find yet another reason we need to keep our coastline clean - so that we can all go on an oyster adventure one day.

Later, as the sun sets behind the Coastal Mountain range of the mainland accross the water from Miracle Beach, a young girl Ruby and her mom Wendy stop to talk to us . Ruby is twelve. She tells us that the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico is a result of our ever growing push for more and more and more. She says that if the oil had been extracted and used in our cars and production, it would be the same pollution, just 'invisible' and dispersed. Its just because it's concentrated in the water that we can actually understand how much damage we really do. This journey is teaching us about listening to both the young and the old, with equal respect. Ruby is a part of the generation who is inheriting this planet, and she can see the absurdity in the way we're treating our only home. It is inspiring to meet these kids, for they will be the ones to bring forward the creative solutions to the problems being created right now.

The sand on this beach is soft and silver in the dying light, and we hardly notice the flooding tide advancing until the rainbow blanket is almost surrounded. As we make our way back to our campsite, we stop and talk with a musician named Julian who is working the night shift. "You know, the ocean makes no sense at all half the time, its just too surreal..." he tells us, and these words drift with us as we collapse, exhausted, into our tent.

Beached

To the local indigenous people of this coast, Hornby Island is a sacred place visited for healing and guidance, Tim Biggins tells us this as we sit beneath a shady apple tree in the orchard outside the Cardboardhouse Bakery. As he talks, a mighty jet-black raven lands behind him on the picnic table, head cocked towards us - listening. You can feel this healing energy underfoot as you walk the shores of this island, over bubbles and drips captured in warm sandstone. 

We rolled onto Hornby at the same time as the heat wave and crowd of summertime souls heading to the beach. Someone told us that the further you get from mainland, the slower time moves, and our visit melts into a sea of music, laughter, and adventures along the water. 

This island weaves a silvery web, entwining creative people from all walks of life. So many locals have told the same story - "came for a visit 10....30..40 years ago, fell in love with the place and never left." One wise weathered islander, when I commented on the kindness and openness of the community, laughed and said, "but isn't this the way life should always be? It's funny that we've come so far away from a place of honest friendliness that it suprises us - we're all neighbours here."

What goes up must go down I guess, and we feel the blow on our second day, when our little green tent - our home for the journey - disapears. But a campfire always softens the edges of a rough day, and we spend the night warm and safe in a driftwood beach hut, graciously offered to us by a wandering anarchist named Ayron. Waking up in a cucoon of smooth sea-worn logs, the morning beckons us into the waves.

Denman Island is a cool deep breath between the craziness of Hornby, and Vancouver Island. The huckleberry bushes are loaded with juicy red berries, enjoyed in the shade of tangled mossy forest. The Slobodin family offers us showers, an amazing feast of birthday leftovers, and they donate a three-legged tent to the campaign! We are happy campers, curled up in a new home, in a new place, fed and clean and excited for tomorrow!

The Wild Woods

Timmy's cup....pink lighter.....two more rim-rolling cups.....glass explosion! Dodge! Whew, traveling through the deep green rainforest of the Oceanside Highway the garbage seems so out of place.

To an artist who prides herself in re-using and recycling most of my pieces, I find it almost impossible not to stop and use this 'waste' to its highest potential and create something beautiful with it. An old buckle here, a piece of bent metal there, where does all of this come from and what are we going to do about it? It scars the ditches of sweet peas and daisies and is evidence of a human footprint spreading into what wilderness we have left. Is it my responsibility to pick up these things and use them? Is it somebody's job? It seems like I would be the only person along these lonely kilometers that cares for these scraps, but I'm sure I'm not the only one.

In Fanny Bay, we meet another pack-rat with a purpose, George Sawchuck, a sculptor whose creative genius draws people from near and far to take a wander through the "Wacky Woods". George leads us through two of his workshops, overflowing with the most amazing 'junk' transformed into art. Each sculpture speaks boldly of the society we live in, and the artist explains that the world speaks in over 6000 languages, but sees in only one. The sacred-ness of water, and the preservation of our precious resources is something that shines through many sculptures, as well as conflict related to capitalism, oil monopoly, and our constant push for economic growth.
We wander past a huge garden, kept green and happy by George's wife Pat, and into the ancient mossy forest that encircles their beautiful home. The woods have been transformed over many years, random discarded objects pieced together, woven into the trees themselves, to tell a story. Mirrors imbeded into old nurse logs reflect the gentle light filtering through the great green canopy, and mossy groves are alive with elfin treasures. The story isn't obvious, but these woods whisper of freedom - the kind that is found only amongs trees and good friends, when we speak without fear, and create the world we believe in around us.

Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.
-Goethe