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

Ferns, Salal, Robins and Rabbits

The deep soft eyes of an indigenous warrior painted on the side of the grocery store follow us as we walk down the main street of Chemainus. This town tells stories everywhere you go - stories of the past, the settlement of the area, the trading system and the flourishing lumber industry. The little town also tells a story of near-death at the industrialization of the mill almost thirty years ago that left 80% of the mill workers without a job, and the creative practicality that kept Chemainus alive. Often resource-based industries leave pockets of boom and bust behind them, as progress is constantly outgrowing itself. In this particular scenario, the townspeople turned to art to draw visitors to the dwindling town and collaboratively began to paint murals depicting the history of their town. Today, tourbuses roll into town at the begining of summer, laden with visitors eager to meander through streets that tell stories as you walk.

The tale of Chemainus is interesting to us because the main force driving the Enbridge Project forward is money and, consequentially, the promise of jobs to Northern communities. In our constant push for economic gain, and an increase in jobs, we must ask ourselves if the creation of 200 permanent jobs (not all of which will be in BC) are worth risking an oil spill in the waters bordering the mighty Great Bear Rainforest. Surely there are ways that communities like Kitimat can use creativity to continue growth without sacrificing ecology for the economy. Investment in local food sources, alternative energy, education, community building, and traditional crafts has a long-lasting strengthening effect on a village, and maintains the integrity of the natural world surrounding it.

Beyond Chemainus, our Canada Day parade leads us into Nanaimo for a morning of music in the harbour, and onwards to Parksville, flags flying high, for an afternoon spent on a different beach. The waterfront is a sea of red and white, teeming with people riding on pride, sunshine and beer. To me, this day is a celebration of our country, our coast and the excitement of the days to come. The journey is just beginning and we have already been blessed by so many interesting perspectives, each leading us into further understanding of how special these waters really are. Under a sky lit by fireworks, explosive flowers of light and sound, in a sea of happy half-cut summer souls, it is very peaceful. Happy Canada Day!

Home

A village can't be made from not wanting to be alone, but from service. A village person is a servant first, one who can, after great learning say, "These are my people. Here I am at Home."

Anon

This message hangs above the sink overlooking a garden woven into the land that slopes away from the outdoor kitchen. We are amongst villagers now, a group of people who have gathered at the O.U.R. Ecovillage in Shawnigan Lake to learn about all different aspects of sustainable living. The laughter and voices from a terrace below us comes from the group of adventurers hard at work building a bathhouse out of cob. The mixture of clay and straw has was the morning's work, and now the fun part has begun - moulding the walls of the new structure. At a sunny picnic table to one side sits a cluster of gardeners, discussing irrigation and the day's project - planting beets! The carefree swoop and sail of a swallow through the trees traces freedom through the blue sky.

Biking the Malahat out of Victoria Monday afternoon was like climbing out of a haze. The stress and chaos of moving, campaigning, and saying goodbye to a beautiful city all fades into the steady motion of the breath and the bikes. The smooth orange skin of the arbutus trees is brilliantly contrasted against the deep green moss dripping from cliffs on either side of the road. The great expanse of sea stretches away from us into the unknown, steady and mysterious, as the ocean always seems to be. Traveling this way, with aching quadriceps pulling a bike, a body, and everything needed for a month-long journey is mysteriously liberating. As a tiny unit of self-sustenance, home is everywhere and anywhere.

And now the villagers and travellers, wanderers and wonderers, gather for a shared lunch in the courtyard under the sun. They join hands in a circle around the long table laden with a feast - borscht, garden salad, casserole, and fresh cornbread - all prepared by the lovely Lara, kitchen magician. Traveling around the circle, each villager introduces himself and what he/she is grateful for on this day. Food tastes so much sweeter when it is blessed in gratitude and as we bike away from the peaceful village, we are fuelled by the kindness of strangers.

Today, we are grateful for freedom.