Near Olympia, WA
Millersylvania State Park was built by the CCC in the 30s, and threading the road around and around through the trunks of 60 foot trees must've seemed like a cool thing back then.
I noticed there's a lot of bark been rubbed off some of these trees recently, maybe eight or ten feet up. You couldn't make the whole circuit in a motorhome, and even with the articulation of a 27 foot trailer it wasn't easy. Finally I found one of the very few drive-through spaces and pulled in.
No way I'd try to do this after dark.
But this is exactly the sort of mature spruce forest I like best: thick branches 20-60 feet off the ground, big trunks, nothing much down low. You can walk around on a carpet of needles in the quiet gloom without having to break a trail through brush. It seemed to drink up sound. At 5 pm when I was setting up, the silence was almost oppressive.
It wouldn't last.
A little before 8 pm someone started up the loudest generator I have ever heard. Needles rained down from the trees. The whole world was vibrating. Making my way down there two or three sites towards it was the aural equivalent of walking into a gale.
This "site" didn't even look like part of the park. It was like unexpectedly turning a corner into a bad street along the border. Plastic sacks of garbage lay piled around, some open. Ragged blue tarps half hid more mounds of junk: bicycle parts, empty glass bottles, beer cans, crates, rusty stuff.
You couldn't generate this much trash overnight. They must've been here weeks like this.
There were two hail-battered Winnebagos sharing the site, and one of them had a flat tire. There was a thin wormy-looking dog sprawled under the far one. He sat up to look at me disinterestedly. His tongue hung out.
And I could not believe the noise and oily blue smoke and bits of fluid splatter coming out of that old generator. All but a remnant of the muffler had rusted off some time in the distant past. It was shaking so hard it might have walked right on into downtown Olympia if it hadn't been tied off.
I didn't see a burn barrel or a bunch of chickens, but I was half expecting them. The door was open. Needless to say, they didn't hear me come up.
Bubba and Bubbette were in there, lying back semi-clothed across a couch that had been let down into a bed some while back. She was sucking on a hand rolled cigarette. Or maybe something stronger. She jumped up when she saw me, but he didn't bother.
"HOW LONG YOU GONNA KEEP THAT RACKET UP??"
Mumble, mumble, mumble. RATTLE, RATTLE, RUMBLE, RUMBLE, STINK, POP.
"WHAT? WILL YOU TURN THAT OFF?"
"i'mjustcookin'supper..."
"IF I HAVE TO LEAVE HERE TO GET AWAY FROM THIS, YOU CAN BET THE RANGER WILL BE DOWN HERE RIGHT AFTER."
Empty threat. I hadn't seen anybody around when I came in.
"i'mcookin'supper..."
I looked over at Bubba, who seemed to be actually going to sleep in the middle of this whole thing. I shook my head. It was hopeless. There was no way to shame these people. They reminded me of Faulkner's river clan, the Snopeses.
Not the Joads. Neither of them bore any resemblance to Henry Fonda. Definitely the Snopeses. And from what little I could remember, this was not good.
I covered my ears, went back to my site, and considered my options. I could shoot them both. Nope. Since I knew I was going to Canada, I'd left my guns at home. I could shoot the generator. Nope. Same problem. Hmmmm. Maybe I could run my head right into a tree.
It was getting dark, and I wasn't sure I could thread this maze in the dark. I had company coming: Meep from the newsgroup and her son Evan.
Too bad. I had to leave, or I was going to do something desperate. I got the phone out of the truck to call Meep and tell her to forget about it. And at that precise moment the noise stopped. I guess it was only on for maybe 20 minutes. Not much, objectively speaking. Probably just enough time to microwave a half dozen slab dinners.
Twenty minutes that shook the world.
There was a lot of random noise coming from that site all night, but nothing to even approach the ear-slaughter earlier. Cussing, kids yelling, dogs whining, raucous laughter. Mere nothings.
Once it sounded like they tried to fire up one of the Winnebagos. It spat, choked, and rumbled just long enough to inform me there was no muffler on that thing either.
The Snopes Family Reunion. There was a bunch of them. They seemed to overlap several sites. Certainly the kids did.
Meep and Evan showed up soon after, and we burned some logs. It wasn't so bad while they were there. My ears quit ringing. Evan was wearing his Scout uniform, with all his patches. Meep brought marshmallows, and Evan entertained himself by losing a few of them in the fire.
Turns out that Meep can sing. Like a bird. Evan egged her on a bit, and between them I got to hear a good part of the second act of Phantom of the Opera.
It was a lot easier to listen to than the neighbors. Every now and then we'd hear a strangled scream and a cackle from down that way.
The only place I'm able to successfully carry a tune is in the shower, with plenty of water to block my ears and lubricate those golden vocal chords.
Phantom of the Shower.
One effect of the RV life is that I sing less these days. I've only got 6 gallons of hot water. Don't believe I could attempt a lyric opera on that. Maybe Pirates of Penzance. Some of that goes pretty quickly.
That's what I should have done about the Snopeses. Sung at 'em, sans shower. That'd show'em.
Nah. On second thought, they'd probably just think it was good stuff. Real good stuff. And groupies like these I could do without.
While we were sitting there talking, a voice came out of the darkness.
"Hullo the camp."
"What can we do for you?"
"Well, I'm not trouble, that's for sure. I'm too old to be any trouble to anybody. I saw you here, and I was thirsty, and I wondered if I could get one of those beers. I'd have brought you some, but I don't think I can drive out of here to get any. When I was younger I could see good to drive, but now..."
He went on in this vein, talking on and on into the air without seeming to expect any reply. He had a couple of day's growth of itchy looking white beard, and he limped a little. Reminded me of Walter Brennan.
I gave him a beer, thinking he'd take it and go away.
But no. He sat down on a rock right next to us, and commenced to tell us all his problems, starting about 20 years back. Dear Lord. We were in for it.
After a few minutes of this, it came to me that this was probably Grandpa Snopes. They sicced him on us. Great.
"You can take that beer with you, if you want. We don't need the bottle back."
His voice trailed off halfway through whatever story he was telling. mumblemumblemumblemum. Just like Bubbette.
"Go ahead. Take it."
He got up, hesitated, started to say something, thought better of it, and wished us good night.
"Sure. So long. Good night."
He staggered off, fondling the neck of that bottle like it was his best friend's sweetheart.
Next morning I got up early and wove my way out of there. I stopped at the office. They said they were aware of the problem, and had Already Spoken To Those People.
"Spoken? Over the generator?"
"No. Well, you see, the regular ranger is off sick..."
"Spoken. Spoken!? You're gonna have to do a lot more than that. Those people aren't camping. They've moved in there. That much trash didn't accumulate in a few days, and you know it. One of those buses won't even start. One has a flat. You're gonna need a wrecker and a dump truck and probably explosives to get them out of there."
I caught my breath. I was scaring the clerk. What the hell.
"Look. I'm gone. I've never seen this sort of crap tolerated in a state park. And I won't stay in a place where it is. I don't know if you've got a problem here, or if you are the problem here. But it's not my problem any more."
I turned and went for the door. When I was half way through, she called out to ask if I wanted my money back. But I was too dang mad to turn around.
I see the transient life I've adopted lately as cognate with freedom, but only as long as it remains transient. Once tires go flat and mufflers fall off, it's not transient. It's not attractive.
It's just trash.
Bob
Things That Go Bump In The Day
September 24, 2003
September 20, 2003
Victoria Rules
Ferry Terminal
Victoria, BC
Well, if I was perfect, I wouldn't need guidance. I ended up on Douglas, did a bit of panicky dancing to avoid being funneled directly into Parliament, and found myself unexpectedly at the ferry dock. It looked like fate to me. Mo from the newsgroup had mentioned that I could stay the night there if I arrived late, so I enquired about it.
Sure enough. "Come back around 4. You can park free along the waterfront, meanwhile. You're from Texas, right? It's called Dallas Road."
I spent a couple of hours walking around the neighborhood, which is called James Bay. The whole place brought a smile to my face. I've kept my eyes open all through this trip for the sorts of things that might make a good retirement place. There are a lot of them here. A clean, relatively modest neighborhood, near a human-scaled downtown with plenty to do. You can walk to a grocery, or a bakery, or a large library. The sea air blows through the houses. It is near a great University, with all that implies. This could be the place.
But I liked James Bay, if only for helping me discover a bit what I'm looking for. What I like most is the lack of a need for the daily use of an automobile. As a bonus, the Olympic Peninsula is only an hour away by ferry. Maybe I'll come back and check it out with a realtor, after the house in Georgetown is sold, and after I've seen a bit more of the world.
I walked all over downtown Victoria. It's a walker's town. Start out across a street, and autos reliably stop for you. Try that in Austin, and you may end up in a wheelchair. I snacked on some oysters, with a gin martini on the side. Later I supped on a variety of sushi, at Hime Sushi. I shopped a couple of bookstores. When I eventually arrived back at the quayside information booth, it was closed. So I went in to the desk at the Empress Hotel, and asked what there was to do in this burg on a Friday night. They handed me a 5 page list.
What struck my eye was "Ladies of Swing" at the Royal Theatre, a singer named Dee Daniels giving homage to Peggy Lee, Billy Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, and Ella Fitzgerald. Four blocks away. Did I mention I like the scale of this town? I got there about 7 for the 8 o'clock performance. I sat across the street for a while at Caffe Teatro, sipped a double machiatto, and watched the crowd arrive. Most of them were better dressed than I was. One couple, notably, arrived in a green and grey Bentley.
Heck, there were panhandlers better dressed than I was, but there was neither the time nor inclination to walk all the way home to the ferry and change. Shadows darkened and cooled the evening streets. I was still wearing what I wore on the beach in Port Renfrew that morning: scuffed shoes, white socks, bluejeans, and a pullover shirt. Hard to feel elegant, with this crowd for contrast.
What the hell. Elegance has always been a matter of selective blindness, a mix of arrogance and imagination. I'll just turn up the juice, and do the best that I can. So I slipped into the nosebleed seats while everyone was watching the orchestra warm up. It was a creditable performance. Speaking of elegance, my favorite number was an old Duke Ellington tune:
"My heart's so romantic,
Not made of wood.
O I've got it bad.
And that ain't good."
"You like the theater?" She had a proprietary air.
"It's wonderful. Shame about the seats. Looks like they came out of a school auditorium."
"Why, these are new. They are much better, much more comfortable than the old ones."
"But they're navy blue. You want to bring back the Gilded Age, you've got to have plush red, or maybe a deep rose. Or salmon, like the walls..."
"I was on the committee. The old ones were really shabby."
Uh oh. Er. "But why blue? What color were the old ones?"
"Ahh. Well. I think they were rose..."
Ah ha. I'm not alone. It's petty, I know. But such tiny triumphs make my day. She really was a nice lady.
While getting coffee before the performance, I asked the waitress, "Where do people here go after the show?"
"They go to bed," she said primly, with a look that said I would too, if I was decent. So I did.
Next morning I got my ticket to Port Angeles. With the trailer, truck, and all, it came to $128 Canadian. One handy thing is that they took all my left over Canadian currency as partial payment, and put the rest on a card. You can make the trip as a walk on passenger for $8.50 US. I highly recommend this to those of you that may find yourself tired of driving or camping out, while in the Port Angeles area of Olympic National Park.
What a great way to break up your trip.
And everything is comfortable.
Maybe 30 minutes before the ferry was to leave, while it was waiting to load a semi, a fellow came up and told me I had a flat on the trailer. Good grief. A nail. Two guys volunteered to help, and in record time we had that baby changed. People can be great, if you just let 'em.
So long Canada. I've hardly known you.
Yet.
Bob
Victoria, BC
| As I arrived in Victoria, the sun was shining for the first time in days. When it shines, it really shines. Despite the best of intentions and the advice of friends, I entirely missed Ft. Victoria RV Park. The number got me. 340 Island Hwy. Sounds like it's close to the water, right? |  |
Well, if I was perfect, I wouldn't need guidance. I ended up on Douglas, did a bit of panicky dancing to avoid being funneled directly into Parliament, and found myself unexpectedly at the ferry dock. It looked like fate to me. Mo from the newsgroup had mentioned that I could stay the night there if I arrived late, so I enquired about it.
Sure enough. "Come back around 4. You can park free along the waterfront, meanwhile. You're from Texas, right? It's called Dallas Road."
I spent a couple of hours walking around the neighborhood, which is called James Bay. The whole place brought a smile to my face. I've kept my eyes open all through this trip for the sorts of things that might make a good retirement place. There are a lot of them here. A clean, relatively modest neighborhood, near a human-scaled downtown with plenty to do. You can walk to a grocery, or a bakery, or a large library. The sea air blows through the houses. It is near a great University, with all that implies. This could be the place.
| I didn't see anything for sale. Chances are, this near Parliament, these small stucco houses are a half million apiece. Who knows? People living in them don't look any more prosperous than I do. Perhaps they are all house-poor. Around the middle of the 3rd block of Menzies I watched for a while as a large frame house was jacked up 12 feet in the air, to make room for a new first story. Shows the land must be expensive, anyhow. |  |
But I liked James Bay, if only for helping me discover a bit what I'm looking for. What I like most is the lack of a need for the daily use of an automobile. As a bonus, the Olympic Peninsula is only an hour away by ferry. Maybe I'll come back and check it out with a realtor, after the house in Georgetown is sold, and after I've seen a bit more of the world.
I walked all over downtown Victoria. It's a walker's town. Start out across a street, and autos reliably stop for you. Try that in Austin, and you may end up in a wheelchair. I snacked on some oysters, with a gin martini on the side. Later I supped on a variety of sushi, at Hime Sushi. I shopped a couple of bookstores. When I eventually arrived back at the quayside information booth, it was closed. So I went in to the desk at the Empress Hotel, and asked what there was to do in this burg on a Friday night. They handed me a 5 page list.
What struck my eye was "Ladies of Swing" at the Royal Theatre, a singer named Dee Daniels giving homage to Peggy Lee, Billy Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, and Ella Fitzgerald. Four blocks away. Did I mention I like the scale of this town? I got there about 7 for the 8 o'clock performance. I sat across the street for a while at Caffe Teatro, sipped a double machiatto, and watched the crowd arrive. Most of them were better dressed than I was. One couple, notably, arrived in a green and grey Bentley.
Heck, there were panhandlers better dressed than I was, but there was neither the time nor inclination to walk all the way home to the ferry and change. Shadows darkened and cooled the evening streets. I was still wearing what I wore on the beach in Port Renfrew that morning: scuffed shoes, white socks, bluejeans, and a pullover shirt. Hard to feel elegant, with this crowd for contrast.
What the hell. Elegance has always been a matter of selective blindness, a mix of arrogance and imagination. I'll just turn up the juice, and do the best that I can. So I slipped into the nosebleed seats while everyone was watching the orchestra warm up. It was a creditable performance. Speaking of elegance, my favorite number was an old Duke Ellington tune:
"My heart's so romantic,
Not made of wood.
O I've got it bad.
And that ain't good."
| The Royal Theatre dates from the last half of the nineteenth century. It's obviously been lovingly restored, for the most part, the rococo plasterwork set off in salmon and gold. I stood up to take a picture during intermission. A lady behind me spoke up. |  |
"You like the theater?" She had a proprietary air.
"It's wonderful. Shame about the seats. Looks like they came out of a school auditorium."
"Why, these are new. They are much better, much more comfortable than the old ones."
"But they're navy blue. You want to bring back the Gilded Age, you've got to have plush red, or maybe a deep rose. Or salmon, like the walls..."
"I was on the committee. The old ones were really shabby."
Uh oh. Er. "But why blue? What color were the old ones?"
"Ahh. Well. I think they were rose..."
Ah ha. I'm not alone. It's petty, I know. But such tiny triumphs make my day. She really was a nice lady.
| I walked home around 10 pm. Downtown Victoria feels extremely safe late at night, despite having few people about. Part of it is the plentiful lighting, with lamps every 20 paces. Part is the calm clean quietness. No squealing tires, no stink of open dumpsters from the shadows. As I said, a walker's town. |  |
 |
While getting coffee before the performance, I asked the waitress, "Where do people here go after the show?"
"They go to bed," she said primly, with a look that said I would too, if I was decent. So I did.
Next morning I got my ticket to Port Angeles. With the trailer, truck, and all, it came to $128 Canadian. One handy thing is that they took all my left over Canadian currency as partial payment, and put the rest on a card. You can make the trip as a walk on passenger for $8.50 US. I highly recommend this to those of you that may find yourself tired of driving or camping out, while in the Port Angeles area of Olympic National Park.
What a great way to break up your trip.
| An hour's cruise away from the woods is a fine clean city, full of things to do. If you want Canadian cash, there's ATMs everywhere. Within blocks of the dock, you can eat any cuisine in the world, see an ballet or a movie, go to a museum or go whale watching, watch pontoon planes take off and land, see the great cruise ships docked at Ogden Point. For a few dollars more you can take a cab up to Victoria University, and get yourself some culture, if you are so inclined. Anything is possible. |  |
 |
And everything is comfortable.
Maybe 30 minutes before the ferry was to leave, while it was waiting to load a semi, a fellow came up and told me I had a flat on the trailer. Good grief. A nail. Two guys volunteered to help, and in record time we had that baby changed. People can be great, if you just let 'em.
| As the docks diminished in the distance, I was sorry to leave Canada. Sunlight sparkled on the water. A seagull flew up and perched for a long time on the rear railing, occasionally lifting to hover, wincing his eyes in the wind of passage. Perhaps he was an expatriate also, sneaking a ride home across the strait. |  |
So long Canada. I've hardly known you.
Yet.
Bob
September 18, 2003
Rainy Days
Anonymous Campground
Port Renfrew, V.I.
Juan de Fuca Strait is wilder on the Island side. Past Sooke, Hwy 14 deteriorates into the worst paved road I've ever traveled on. Top speed of 35 mph, and not often that. The bedroom TV let go on one of those unexpected bounces, winding up face down in the bed under a tangle of metal. Still works okay. Next time I get near a Home Depot, I think I'll replace it with a bookshelf. I haven't watched it once in the last two years.
| I'm at Port Renfrew now, the local version of the end of the world. Things could be worse. The view that I was told went "clear to Japan" ends a hundred yards off shore, when the fog takes over. But there's good chowder at the local cafe, and the waves sing me to sleep each night. When it's not raining too hard. |  |
And I've got internet access in my trailer. Telus, Verizon's partner, does a great job in the hinterlands of BC. The only towns I haven't been able to get on were Jasper and Lillooet, and there I could get voice. I wish the coverage was as good in the PNW. Maybe it's improved in the last couple of years, but used to the west coast of Washington might just as well been the far side of the moon, for cell coverage.
Satellite radio, both XM and Sirius, have also worked well. There's no fade out, no distortion. Either they come in perfect or they don't come in at all. The only trouble has been in tunnels and a couple of deep canyons.
| Right after I got here, a fellow showed up in the rain and started putting up canvas shelters and tarp lean-tos. He said at least 30 people were going to be with him on this small beach by the weekend. It seems that at last the coho have smelled enough fresh water, and are coming into the San Juan River. The fishermen are swarming also. So far they are not too boisterous. No drunken singing at night. I have stayed an extra day in hope of a break in the weather, and perhaps to get a picture of this seminal event in salmon life, but tomorrow (Friday) I'm off to Victoria regardless. |  |
| It's been a restful day, mostly cooped up in the trailer. A bit of reading, some satellite radio, catching up in Quicken and on the newsgroup. I think I've been traveling too much. I'm still fighting that old "vacation trip" mentality, scheduling something every day. After the PNWCO, I hope to find some place to settle down for a week, to read and watch the gulls fight over bits of clam. |  |
Maybe I'll go up to Klalaloch, and take up a spot in the gravel pit they use for an overflow area. It's right on the beach, as I am now. But after PNWCO. No hurries, no worries, then. Yeah.
Being retired is harder than I thought. Mentally, I mean. Letting go of old habits, old hurries. I keep making up "work" to do. Gotta watch that. There's a rat race at the end of that road.
See you back in the USA.
Bob
September 17, 2003
Winding on Down
Vancouver Island has really turned my head around. Let me explain.
I am staying the night at Rathtrevor Beach PP, in Parksville, waiting for the Ford dealer to finish an oil and transmission fluid change. I had a peculiar experience last night. I walked down to the beach to watch the lingering coals of the sunset. The actual orb had already retired for the night. Light continued to come up from below the horizon for a long time, shading the low clouds from pink to rust as it faded. The sea beneath was a shade of pastel phosphorescent green I'd never seen before. One of the best sunsets ever.
Only it wasn't.
As the stars came out, I spied Ursa Major overhead, and the old bear told me immediately that I was looking directly north. I rose up off the log, shaking my head, and turned around. There, directly south, a faint sunrise was making its appearance. Just that pale lightening in the clouds that you get right at first. I did a couple of spins. Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. Sunset.
Help! I'm trapped in Fiddler on the Roof!
Now, I don't know for sure, but I'm guessing that what I took to be a sunset was in fact some sort of reflection from the sea and clouds, though it certainly had the centered quality and the intensity of the real thing. The sunrise has to be the lights of Nanaimo, scattered up from behind the headland.
This question remains. Can a guy who thinks the sun rises in the south and sets in the north ever find his way home?
And does it matter?
On to mundane matters. People have asked me: Is traveling is cheaper in Canada? Would it be a good place to retire? The answer turns out to be surprisingly complicated. There's a 31% difference in the currencies. Prices of campgrounds turn out to be about the same, from $15 to $33 per night. So are the prices of many goods and services. This oil change and transmission flush, for example, is exactly the same price I paid last year in Austin. $221. So I saved the 31%. If you have a big ticket item to buy, you can save a lot here, but only if you don't have to pay it anyway as duty at the border.
Gas, otoh, is expensive here. About $.86 a liter, which figures out to $2.25 a gallon US. I was paying $1.48 when I left Austin, so that's a 50% premium. Depends on where you are in the US. All in all, I think I saved a lot traveling in Canada. If you don't count the heart attack, of course. Maybe even there. How much you save depends on how much you travel, which is true of RVing everywhere.
How about retirement? Well, if your funds are in US dollars, you can save 31% right now, which ain't hay. I saw 5 acres on a hill right over the ocean for $100,000 Canadian, along 19A south of Campbell River. Winter weather on the Island is said to be mild. But all the talk I hear about new hires here turns out to be somebody closing something down a cannery or a mill, and needing temporary help. So things remain chronically depressed here on the Island. While that continues, prices will be low.
You could qualify for Canadian Medicare as a landed foreign resident. But what will happen with that may be problematic over the next years. Right now it's still a pretty good deal. If you can qualify both here and in the States, you will have choices.
You pays yer money, and takes yer chances. I like it here, but maybe not enough to move.
Traveling towards Victoria, I somehow got on a bypass at Nanaimo, so I can't say much about that city, except that it is larger than most up here, and has its complement of Walmarts and such. It didn't take long to get tired of the Canadian version of an Interstate, so when I saw a sign saying Cowichan Bay, I swung left, startling the staid traffic.
The meal was saved by the ice cream place next door, where I discovered two flavors I have never tried, which I hadn't thought possible. Roasted Coconut and Real Orange with dark chocolate chips. How to choose? I ate them both. One after the other.
I missed several fine hilltop views of the coast because no one in Canada is allowed to turn left. It is a little like downtown Portland, that way.
Before turning east into Victoria, I thought I'd have a look at the Juan de Fuca strait from the Canadian side, along the road to Sooke. At Potholes Provincial Park I met a guy who told me I ought to continue on to Port Renfrew, at the end of the road, where there is supposedly a campground right on the Pacific, with "a view that goes on to Japan".
How can I resist ?
Bob
I am staying the night at Rathtrevor Beach PP, in Parksville, waiting for the Ford dealer to finish an oil and transmission fluid change. I had a peculiar experience last night. I walked down to the beach to watch the lingering coals of the sunset. The actual orb had already retired for the night. Light continued to come up from below the horizon for a long time, shading the low clouds from pink to rust as it faded. The sea beneath was a shade of pastel phosphorescent green I'd never seen before. One of the best sunsets ever.
Only it wasn't.
As the stars came out, I spied Ursa Major overhead, and the old bear told me immediately that I was looking directly north. I rose up off the log, shaking my head, and turned around. There, directly south, a faint sunrise was making its appearance. Just that pale lightening in the clouds that you get right at first. I did a couple of spins. Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. Sunset.
Help! I'm trapped in Fiddler on the Roof!
Now, I don't know for sure, but I'm guessing that what I took to be a sunset was in fact some sort of reflection from the sea and clouds, though it certainly had the centered quality and the intensity of the real thing. The sunrise has to be the lights of Nanaimo, scattered up from behind the headland.
This question remains. Can a guy who thinks the sun rises in the south and sets in the north ever find his way home?
And does it matter?
On to mundane matters. People have asked me: Is traveling is cheaper in Canada? Would it be a good place to retire? The answer turns out to be surprisingly complicated. There's a 31% difference in the currencies. Prices of campgrounds turn out to be about the same, from $15 to $33 per night. So are the prices of many goods and services. This oil change and transmission flush, for example, is exactly the same price I paid last year in Austin. $221. So I saved the 31%. If you have a big ticket item to buy, you can save a lot here, but only if you don't have to pay it anyway as duty at the border.
Gas, otoh, is expensive here. About $.86 a liter, which figures out to $2.25 a gallon US. I was paying $1.48 when I left Austin, so that's a 50% premium. Depends on where you are in the US. All in all, I think I saved a lot traveling in Canada. If you don't count the heart attack, of course. Maybe even there. How much you save depends on how much you travel, which is true of RVing everywhere.
How about retirement? Well, if your funds are in US dollars, you can save 31% right now, which ain't hay. I saw 5 acres on a hill right over the ocean for $100,000 Canadian, along 19A south of Campbell River. Winter weather on the Island is said to be mild. But all the talk I hear about new hires here turns out to be somebody closing something down a cannery or a mill, and needing temporary help. So things remain chronically depressed here on the Island. While that continues, prices will be low.
You could qualify for Canadian Medicare as a landed foreign resident. But what will happen with that may be problematic over the next years. Right now it's still a pretty good deal. If you can qualify both here and in the States, you will have choices.
You pays yer money, and takes yer chances. I like it here, but maybe not enough to move.
Traveling towards Victoria, I somehow got on a bypass at Nanaimo, so I can't say much about that city, except that it is larger than most up here, and has its complement of Walmarts and such. It didn't take long to get tired of the Canadian version of an Interstate, so when I saw a sign saying Cowichan Bay, I swung left, startling the staid traffic.
| Thus I discovered the "Seaside Route", which led me to several small interesting dockside towns. Typical is Cowichan Bay itself. I ate lunch at the Rock Cod Cafe, whose portions were as generous as its menu was ordinary. The pan-fried oyster appetizer was pretty good. And there were some massive pieces of cod being handed out on the fish n' chips platter. But I am a Southern boy, and I know that fish are supposed to be fried in a light crumbly coating of corn meal, not the tough slick carapace of dough favored up here. |  |
The meal was saved by the ice cream place next door, where I discovered two flavors I have never tried, which I hadn't thought possible. Roasted Coconut and Real Orange with dark chocolate chips. How to choose? I ate them both. One after the other.
I missed several fine hilltop views of the coast because no one in Canada is allowed to turn left. It is a little like downtown Portland, that way.
Before turning east into Victoria, I thought I'd have a look at the Juan de Fuca strait from the Canadian side, along the road to Sooke. At Potholes Provincial Park I met a guy who told me I ought to continue on to Port Renfrew, at the end of the road, where there is supposedly a campground right on the Pacific, with "a view that goes on to Japan".
How can I resist ?
Bob
Islands
Rathtrevor Beach Park
Parksville, Vancouver Isle
It's been a busy week. I've been doing stuff instead of writing about it, and it's hard to be sorry about that. The journal habit comes and goes.
I was driving south of Campbell River last week when I came across the ferry to Denman and Hornby Islands, the "Jewels of the Gulf Islands". It says so right here in this brochure. I don't know what it is about islands just off-shore. They are expensive to get to, and difficult to leave. And generally there's not much there. These two live off tourists, but everybody professes to be relieved they're mostly gone. It's that false feeling of isolation, I guess, that gives value to small victories. Denman, for instance, has a good bakery and cafe, though these would be unremarkable were they not "on the island". It costs $35 to take a car to both of them on the ferry.
Denman has one campground, with 10 spaces, in Fillongley Provincial Park. I came over around noon and got the last space available. It's a nice sand beach, and many campers get out their rakes and go clamming there. My neighbor was having a chowder party with the results as I drove up. Boyle Point Park, near the ferry to Hornby, has a nice walk through old growth timber to good views of a lighthouse on Chrome Island off the south end.
At least Denman looks like real people make a living there. Hornby, on the other hand, seems to be filled with artistic types. Every other house seems to have a sign saying "potter" or "weaver". I took a look at some of this stuff at the Co-op, and it seems pretty ordinary. I mentioned the plethora of potters to people in the campground later, and the comment was "they smoke a lot of pot, too". That has to be the basis of the economy, cause there's just so many wall hangings and coffee cups you can sell.
More evidence that I'm getting old, I guess. Time was I would have thought this breezy bohemianism was cool, but now it just seems insufferably cute and useless. I heard one ersatz local "farmer" in granny glasses and overalls brag that he got almost one ear of corn off every stalk he planted. Gosh. The building codes seem to have been written by Hobbits, as they go in for round arches and wicker fences, and the "artisan built" community center is faced with round burls of spruce.
Continuing down the coast, I turned west at the pleasant village of Qualicum Beach. Route 4 was a good road out to Sproat Lake, but then degenerated into the narrow, twisty, lumpy track typical of BC back roads. It's particularly bad on trailers. On 99, back on the mainland, my TV tore screws out of the wall in back, falling to the floor and gouging a hole in the vinyl. Good luck if you've got a rear kitchen.
Tofino is a tourist trap and trinket peddler, but it is pretty. There are a number of private campgrounds nearby, but the best place is Greenville CG in Pacific Rim National Park. This even has it's own slice of Long Beach, a stretch of sand and driftwood that reminds me of the shore in Olympic National Park. Very nice, but you need reservations, which I did not have.
But this is the jumping off place for the Broken Island Group, and I was going kayaking at last.
Gibraltar island was closed due to the presence of wolves. How do wolves get out there? They swim out, to feast on deer. Those are some hungry wolves. It's a two mile swim. It would be something to run across a struggling soggy pack while cruising in your kayak. Bump. Bump, bump. Owoooooooo.
I myself have been eating exceptionally well. Perhaps too well. When I started this trip I was losing lots of weight, but since the heart attack I've put most of it back on. That's okay. At least I've been doing it with style, perhaps in reaction to the gustatory desert of Port Hardy and environs.
I can recommend two restaurants in particular. The Blueberries Cafe in Euclulet has the best clam chowder I have ever eaten, bar none, for about 5 bucks a bowl. Light, creamy, with potatoes cooked down into a broth thick with meat, but not glutinous as many are. It's a soup, not a stew. Lovely large oysters baked in butter and garlic were another of my favorites. This is a small place, upscale without being up price.
In Tofino, if you have to go there, try the Rainforest Cafe. Much more pretentious and a good bit more expensive than the Blueberries, but the cooking was up to the pretention, so I have no real complaint. Much of the menu has an Asian bent. The highlight here was an appetizer, a mountainous heap of mussels and clams in a sweet pepper coconut broth. A meal in itself for 12 bucks. Slurp. I should have ordered two and skipped the entree. Prawns with star anise glaze were just weird.
But I ate every one of them.
After badmouthing Canadian beer earlier, I've found a couple of brands I like: Sleeman's Rainforest Ale, and Piper's Pale Ale. Okanagan Pale Ale is fair, also.
Bob
Parksville, Vancouver Isle
It's been a busy week. I've been doing stuff instead of writing about it, and it's hard to be sorry about that. The journal habit comes and goes.
I was driving south of Campbell River last week when I came across the ferry to Denman and Hornby Islands, the "Jewels of the Gulf Islands". It says so right here in this brochure. I don't know what it is about islands just off-shore. They are expensive to get to, and difficult to leave. And generally there's not much there. These two live off tourists, but everybody professes to be relieved they're mostly gone. It's that false feeling of isolation, I guess, that gives value to small victories. Denman, for instance, has a good bakery and cafe, though these would be unremarkable were they not "on the island". It costs $35 to take a car to both of them on the ferry.
Denman has one campground, with 10 spaces, in Fillongley Provincial Park. I came over around noon and got the last space available. It's a nice sand beach, and many campers get out their rakes and go clamming there. My neighbor was having a chowder party with the results as I drove up. Boyle Point Park, near the ferry to Hornby, has a nice walk through old growth timber to good views of a lighthouse on Chrome Island off the south end.
At least Denman looks like real people make a living there. Hornby, on the other hand, seems to be filled with artistic types. Every other house seems to have a sign saying "potter" or "weaver". I took a look at some of this stuff at the Co-op, and it seems pretty ordinary. I mentioned the plethora of potters to people in the campground later, and the comment was "they smoke a lot of pot, too". That has to be the basis of the economy, cause there's just so many wall hangings and coffee cups you can sell.
More evidence that I'm getting old, I guess. Time was I would have thought this breezy bohemianism was cool, but now it just seems insufferably cute and useless. I heard one ersatz local "farmer" in granny glasses and overalls brag that he got almost one ear of corn off every stalk he planted. Gosh. The building codes seem to have been written by Hobbits, as they go in for round arches and wicker fences, and the "artisan built" community center is faced with round burls of spruce.
| The '60s were good to me, but the charm seems to have worn off. Hornby's saving grace is Helliwell PP, where there is a walk along the cliffs even more impressive than Denman's. Soon as the walk was done, I went directly back to the ferry. I couldn't wait to get away. |  |
 |
| This would have been a good place to kayak, but I walked instead. |  |
Continuing down the coast, I turned west at the pleasant village of Qualicum Beach. Route 4 was a good road out to Sproat Lake, but then degenerated into the narrow, twisty, lumpy track typical of BC back roads. It's particularly bad on trailers. On 99, back on the mainland, my TV tore screws out of the wall in back, falling to the floor and gouging a hole in the vinyl. Good luck if you've got a rear kitchen.
| About 5 miles short of the turnoff to Tofino, there were people parked all over the road, so I joined them. There was a black bear sitting by the roadside, eating grass. That seemed pretty odd behaviour for a bear to me, so I kept my distance and used the telephoto lens. Other people were getting right in it's face with flashbulbs, but it seemed oblivious. |  |
Tofino is a tourist trap and trinket peddler, but it is pretty. There are a number of private campgrounds nearby, but the best place is Greenville CG in Pacific Rim National Park. This even has it's own slice of Long Beach, a stretch of sand and driftwood that reminds me of the shore in Olympic National Park. Very nice, but you need reservations, which I did not have.
| So I went to Toquart Bay instead. The ride down there is pothole city, but the spot is beautiful. Mountains plunging to the sea, with clouds clinging to the peaks. Alternately fogged in and shining in sunlight. Primitive camping, pit toilets and a table for 10 bucks a night. |  |
But this is the jumping off place for the Broken Island Group, and I was going kayaking at last.
| I got one glorious sunny day, maybe 6 hours in the water, out around Hand Island and the Brabants, then back into the Pinkertons and home. That was just right. This is the first paddle of any length I've had in several years, and my first ever in salt water. My upper body was holding up okay, but the cramps that came from keeping my legs crossed and still for hours forced me out of the boat on various beaches. A matter of time and practice, I guess. I'm told there are 12,000 paddlers in here every season, many on multi-day trips. I met dozens myself in the water. No matter. There are hundreds of small empty islands at hand, and maybe a thousand secluded beaches. |  |
 |
Gibraltar island was closed due to the presence of wolves. How do wolves get out there? They swim out, to feast on deer. Those are some hungry wolves. It's a two mile swim. It would be something to run across a struggling soggy pack while cruising in your kayak. Bump. Bump, bump. Owoooooooo.
I myself have been eating exceptionally well. Perhaps too well. When I started this trip I was losing lots of weight, but since the heart attack I've put most of it back on. That's okay. At least I've been doing it with style, perhaps in reaction to the gustatory desert of Port Hardy and environs.
I can recommend two restaurants in particular. The Blueberries Cafe in Euclulet has the best clam chowder I have ever eaten, bar none, for about 5 bucks a bowl. Light, creamy, with potatoes cooked down into a broth thick with meat, but not glutinous as many are. It's a soup, not a stew. Lovely large oysters baked in butter and garlic were another of my favorites. This is a small place, upscale without being up price.
In Tofino, if you have to go there, try the Rainforest Cafe. Much more pretentious and a good bit more expensive than the Blueberries, but the cooking was up to the pretention, so I have no real complaint. Much of the menu has an Asian bent. The highlight here was an appetizer, a mountainous heap of mussels and clams in a sweet pepper coconut broth. A meal in itself for 12 bucks. Slurp. I should have ordered two and skipped the entree. Prawns with star anise glaze were just weird.
But I ate every one of them.
After badmouthing Canadian beer earlier, I've found a couple of brands I like: Sleeman's Rainforest Ale, and Piper's Pale Ale. Okanagan Pale Ale is fair, also.
| Of the two towns, I was charmed by Eucluelet. It is smaller than Tofino, less crowded, and there's a fine walk that starts right in town and goes out to Amphitrite Point, by the lighthouse. 8.7 kilometers laid out in a circle, but the best of it can be had by driving to the lighthouse and walking out from there. Finest ocean views yet. Reminds me of portions of the Maine coastline, with the added attraction of high trees and rain forest flora. Moaning buoys add an eerie touch. It's called the Wild Pacific Trail, and though it's hardly wild, it is pacific. |  |
| You don't even need to walk far. I could sit on one of the many benches and watch the boats go by among the sea-sprayed rocks below for hours. Some of these benches have a plaque showing they were placed there by families in memory of loved ones. |  |
| What a fine way to be remembered. Rest in peace, indeed. |  |
Bob
September 11, 2003
Headed South Again
Oyster Bay Rest Stop
Vancouver Island, BC
I decided not to go. It was not the weather. The only ferry in the next few days was a night journey, from 11pm to 6 am, and no sleepers available, no reclining chairs. It was a clear prospect of arriving wasted, and the same on the return.
"Of course," she said, trying to be helpful, "some people sleep on the floor. I don't know if you are into that." Perhaps when I was 20. These days I prefer to arrive whole and sane.
And so it goes. I got into a local hotel about midnight, slept till five, then back on the "Queen of the North" for the return to Port Hardy. If I'd bought a round trip ticket in the first place, I could have stayed on the boat. But then I'd never have seen the Tim Horton's Coffee Shop in Prince Rupert at 6 am.
A veteran now, I have secured a deathgrip on one of the reclining chairs, and am writing these memoirs for the short attention span theatre that is Newsnet. The return has been a rewind of yesterday's: rain at Prince Rupert, with gradually clearing skies as we proceed south.
A more organized traveler than I might have noticed that the Alaskan Ferry system docks right next to the BC ferries in Prince Rupert. One might have easily arranged an excursion from Port Hardy clear to Haines in Alaska, with a strategic stop in Juneau to view the feral legislator in his native habitat. Or not.
I got back into Wildwood Campground at midnight, and slept till noon the next day. I had thought to do some kayaking in Beaver Harbor, but locals warned me that once you get out of the bays, this whole archipelago south to Comox, which looks so accessible on the map, is a complicated trap of treacherous and conflicting tides and whirlpools. The unwary paddler will no doubt be deposited somewhere, but probably will not be able to fight the water back to where he started. They suggested the area around Tofino on the west coast, and I am headed there.
I spent Wednesday night at Sayward, on a spit right by the wharf, and for 15 bucks got every bit as good a view of the Cruise Ship Parade as I got for $33 at Ripple Rock. On the way through Campbell River today (Thursday) I stopped at the Museum and bought some goodies for the guys back home. The exhibits, including a historical chain saw display, impressed me with how hard people used to work around here just to put food on the table. Felling trees is no joke, and imagine trolling with hand lines all day from a row boat. Sculling in a sleek racer down Town Lake in Austin is a pleasure. Rowing all day and half the night, fighting the currents off Quadra Island in Johnstone Strait just to pull in a few fish during the 1930s had to be a backbreaking nightmare.
Nietzsche famously said that whatever does not kill you makes you strong, but hidden within that clever aphorism is the fact that sometimes what doesn't kill you just leaves you crippled up.
In the museum I saw a documentary on the destruction of Ripple Rock as a hazard in the narrows in 1958. Over a hundred twenty boats small and large had their sides ripped out by those twin rocks, but no more. They tunneled up inside both of them and blew them to smithereens. The explosion tossed water and debris 1100 feet in the air.
It is damn cold right on the beach like this, but it's a wet cold.
Actually I like it, with the trailer here to retreat to. Tonight at last the stars are out, the moon is full, and the waves will sing me to sleep.
G'night.
Bob
Vancouver Island, BC
| Three quarters of the trip to Prince Rupert was lovely weather - partly cloudy, a mild breeze - but the closer we got the more it rained, until right at dark the fog closed in. I spent the last hour trying unsuccessfully to sleep upright in a chair. When we debarked I went straight to the ticket desk. Once again the young girl there was clueless about any weather that wasn't happening right outside the window. |  |
I decided not to go. It was not the weather. The only ferry in the next few days was a night journey, from 11pm to 6 am, and no sleepers available, no reclining chairs. It was a clear prospect of arriving wasted, and the same on the return.
"Of course," she said, trying to be helpful, "some people sleep on the floor. I don't know if you are into that." Perhaps when I was 20. These days I prefer to arrive whole and sane.
And so it goes. I got into a local hotel about midnight, slept till five, then back on the "Queen of the North" for the return to Port Hardy. If I'd bought a round trip ticket in the first place, I could have stayed on the boat. But then I'd never have seen the Tim Horton's Coffee Shop in Prince Rupert at 6 am.
A veteran now, I have secured a deathgrip on one of the reclining chairs, and am writing these memoirs for the short attention span theatre that is Newsnet. The return has been a rewind of yesterday's: rain at Prince Rupert, with gradually clearing skies as we proceed south.
| I have tried to improve my German by listening to the various conversations around me, only to discover it is probably beyond repair. I have seen 3 whales from a distance. This was an underwhelming affair. Each time a rush to the railing to view a barely visible spot of black in the water disappear altogether, only to reappear with a splash. One of them, going away from us, showed it's tail. They seem to move pretty fast when they want to. |  |
A more organized traveler than I might have noticed that the Alaskan Ferry system docks right next to the BC ferries in Prince Rupert. One might have easily arranged an excursion from Port Hardy clear to Haines in Alaska, with a strategic stop in Juneau to view the feral legislator in his native habitat. Or not.
I got back into Wildwood Campground at midnight, and slept till noon the next day. I had thought to do some kayaking in Beaver Harbor, but locals warned me that once you get out of the bays, this whole archipelago south to Comox, which looks so accessible on the map, is a complicated trap of treacherous and conflicting tides and whirlpools. The unwary paddler will no doubt be deposited somewhere, but probably will not be able to fight the water back to where he started. They suggested the area around Tofino on the west coast, and I am headed there.
I spent Wednesday night at Sayward, on a spit right by the wharf, and for 15 bucks got every bit as good a view of the Cruise Ship Parade as I got for $33 at Ripple Rock. On the way through Campbell River today (Thursday) I stopped at the Museum and bought some goodies for the guys back home. The exhibits, including a historical chain saw display, impressed me with how hard people used to work around here just to put food on the table. Felling trees is no joke, and imagine trolling with hand lines all day from a row boat. Sculling in a sleek racer down Town Lake in Austin is a pleasure. Rowing all day and half the night, fighting the currents off Quadra Island in Johnstone Strait just to pull in a few fish during the 1930s had to be a backbreaking nightmare.
Nietzsche famously said that whatever does not kill you makes you strong, but hidden within that clever aphorism is the fact that sometimes what doesn't kill you just leaves you crippled up.
In the museum I saw a documentary on the destruction of Ripple Rock as a hazard in the narrows in 1958. Over a hundred twenty boats small and large had their sides ripped out by those twin rocks, but no more. They tunneled up inside both of them and blew them to smithereens. The explosion tossed water and debris 1100 feet in the air.
| Right now I'm in a rest area on Oyster Bay, a little north of Comox, admiring the cruise ships again. I had no idea there were so many of them. The sense of wonder has a notably short half-life. These boats are still pretty, but the ga-ga factor has diminished considerably. |  |
It is damn cold right on the beach like this, but it's a wet cold.
Actually I like it, with the trailer here to retreat to. Tonight at last the stars are out, the moon is full, and the waves will sing me to sleep.
G'night.
Bob
September 8, 2003
Adventures at Sea
BC, Canada
I think I heard the alarm go off at 5 am, but somebody turned it off. At 6:15 I woke up suddenly, remembering the ferry left at 7:30. I got up and looked out the door. No stars around, but no rain, either. Hmmmm. Guess I'll drive down, and just see what the sky looks like when the sun comes up.
| Thus I found myself in line at the ferry, eating a banana and sipping coffee, watching with growing amazement as the sky turned blue. The lady at the desk chided me pro forma for not having a reservation, then sold me a ticket anyway. Some RVers had less luck. One of them had a reservation, but couldn't fit on. Their friends waved goodbye to them as we left the dock. C'est la vie. Adieu. So sad. See you back in Quebec. |  |
| You could tell the locals. They all rushed for the reclining chairs, and promptly fell asleep. The rest of us milled around, or hit the dubious "Lighthouse Cafe" for a limp breakfast. I grabbed a locker, then joined a gaggle of Germans clicking away at the Deck 7 stern viewing veranda. I would call it a fantail, but I believe those have to extend past the stern. Whatever it was, it was where I stayed for most of the trip. The day was glorious. |  |
Digital cameras, what an advance. Before their advent, you could count on running out of film just as the waterfall came into view. Now you can count on running out of batteries instead. Marginally less bulky, I suppose. I took a hundred pictures, used 16 AA batteries.
Around 9 am, we came into the open ocean of Queen Charlotte Sound. The boat began to roll quite a bit. Ah, the fresh air, the miles and miles of empty water - of water - of water. Time for a stiff-legged stagger to the head. One of the surprises of ocean travel was how peeing became an adventure again, not only for me but also the guy next to me. They need to hang a knotted rope or something over each urinal.
Thank God we were soon to be back in protected waters. In at least one aspect, women may be more suited to a sailor's life than men. Pardon me while I sit down and think the matter over.
The "Queen of the North" is a pleasant enough ship, though used hard, and in need of some paint here and there. She felt rock solid at all times. The staff were sometimes surly, but that may have been the time of the month. They work 15 days solid before getting off. I got a short tour of the crew amenities below decks, and it's pretty grim. Ping Pong is apparently the only legal diversion to be had, other than taped TV.
At one point I got in with a trio of young fishermen from Vancouver Island. They were playing cards in the bar. They'd left their boats in Prince Rupert and gone home for a week, and were now returning. Between hands, they explained a few things as we passed.
| "Those are gill-netters, they run in packs." |  |
 |
"All these islands are protected lands now. Only the native tribes can cut a few trees. Over there, though, you can see the effects of the old A-frame logging. How'd you like to run up that slope all day with an 80 pound chain? You see how the bare spot has a peak, kinda? That was the length of the chain. What they could reach, they'd drag down into the water, float'em sout'."
"Way back up in that channel you can sometimes get some colossal prawns. Quarter pounders, mebbe. Don't want to boil'em, they'd turn rubbery on ya, but they're pretty good to butterfly and barbecue. We see the loghaulers comin', we'd give'm some to miss our lines. They could whip that load into a big S and go right around us, when they wanted to."
| "See those buildings, all falling down? That big brown one used to be a cannery, worked 500 people, sometimes more. They got their power from hydro off the stream. One day they closed up and everybody left, but they didn't bother to turn the power off. So the place stayed all lit up, for years, with nobody there. It was real eerie, sometimes, comin' round on it by night. Then one by one the lights went out. It's dark now. For good, I guess." |  |
"What size boats are suitable for these waters?"
They looked uncertain. One said, "Well, mines 36 foot, but my dad's got a 42."
"I see some small ones, maybe 24 feet. What are they doing out there?"
"Well, small boats have the advantage of speed. Ours are all kinda slow. Those little guys can wait for a break, and then be home before you know it. Depends on what you want to do."
| "How about sailboats?" |  |
"You wanta get where you're goin' today?"
| This area is the home to a thousand waterfalls, many of them spectacular. These islands leak so much water, it's a wonder some of them don't sink. |  |
I met a kid who was hitchhiking to the arctic circle, for some reason. A couple of Dutch ladies on holiday wanted me to tell them all about cowboys. Was Texas really all just cactus and sand? There was a harried young mother from the Queen Charlotte Islands, headed home with 3 youngsters in tow. She suggested I go kayaking there. I listened to a Scotsman explain in a coarse burr I could barely understand the Ceremony of Addressing the Haggis. A short salutation is made, then a dirk is drawn and plunged into the heart of poor Haggis, who splits open to reveal pungent secrets. Apparently Scots like to play with their food.
A Dellionaire from Austin tried to convince me there was an infinite market for PCs.
"It's like watches. How many watches do you own?"
"Why would I own more than one? If you have but one watch, you already know what time it is." I could tell the idea really disgusted him.
"Well, maybe you. But the younger generation will want lots of watches, and lots of computers."
Just so he wouldn't continue to see me as Father Time, I eventually admitted to owning a dress watch "back home".
Back home in Port Hardy, that is.
| North of Bella Bella, we encountered a strange sight: a couple of large two story houses, moving on the waters. They were floating fishing lodges, being towed south for the winter. |  |
I'd hoped for a whale sighting, but none were to be had. So far this trip all I remember seeing in the way of wildlife were some black squirrels and a couple of otters. O yeah, there was that pair of bull elks skylarking in downtown Jasper. People would drive by slowly, warily, then speed away. Those great pointy antlers could play hell with a paint job.
These various things may seem random and unconnected. That's the kind of trip it was. Just goes to show how you can have picaresque adventures even when trapped on a boat. Sometimes it felt like "Don Quixote de la Ferry".
Perhaps I should mention a moment that was important only to me. Towards evening it started raining. Under cover on the veranda, alone, I got out a cigar I bought in Vancouver, intended for ceremonial purposes at a moment like this. A Bolivar Habana. The last thing I will ever smoke. The one before was maybe a week previous to the heart attack. I got it out, unwrapped it, ran it under my nose. Then I realized I didn't have a match. I considered the thing again, weighed it in my hand. Then I tossed that $25 cigar into the waters of Queen Charlotte Sound. Didn't seem near as crazy as smoking it.
I can't afford the ceremony, and I don't need it. I already had the last thing I will ever smoke a while back. It was unmemorable.
That's okay with me.
| Bob |  |
Ferry Freak
Wildwood CG
Vancouver Island
Port Hardy, BC
Ralph Lindberg brings good news and bad news. The good news is Ripple Rock Campground, a few miles north of Campbell River.
Only a little later it began. Walking back from the laundry, I was struck dumb in mid-whistle, motionless in mid-stride. My mouth fell open. There, entirely filling up the narrow channel of Vancouver Strait with light, drifted a small white planet shining in space, a floating dream of avarice and desire. It seemed an emblem of all you could want, just out of reach. I felt like Adam, fresh out of Eden.
My mother went on such a cruise once, long ago. I remember wishing I could go with her. But now that I can, I can't. There's no escape from character. Left to my own devices, I'm a cheap bastard. So I'm taking the ferry to Prince Rupert.
How could I resist? How could anyone?
But then there's Ralph's bad news: "the weather is changing." Boy, is it. Every mile toward Port Hardy brought more rain. Then the fog closed in. Somehow I found the ferry terminal, but the lady there was unhelpful about the weather. You would think a marine service would have up to the minute forecasts, but all she could say was "you never know, eh?". Fortunately reservations are not needed if you don't have a vehicle and don't want a bed.
Perhaps I let the weather color my mood a bit. Port Hardy did indeed seem a drab place on a Saturday afternoon. I ate some indifferent prawns at an Oriental restaurant. The Ford dealer couldn't get to an oil change, and the Library was closed. I went looking for a liquor store, hoping for liquid cheer. Next to a hydrant in the parking lot I found a wallet, but it was flat. A couple of credit cards, though, and a driver's license. The lady at the liquor store knew the guy, and called him while I waited. I gathered up some beer, and left the problem with them.
Another way Canada reminds me of the US, forty years ago: Most liquor stores have only a dozen dusty brands of beer, and all of them taste like Bud or Coors. The way they have all this monotony stacked up and priced, they seem to specialize in selling by the case. "You can break a case if you want, though," she allowed reluctantly. I'm looking forward to getting back to where I can find a cold sixpack of Moose Drool, or a single bottle of some strange stout.
After casting about, I ended up at Wildwood Campground, perhaps a mile and a half from the Ferry terminal. This is a charming, older place that reminds me of the rainforest on the Pacific side of Olympic park. High trees dripping moss and gloom, a deep carpet of needles and lichen under foot. The manager was a young man who looked for all the world like John-Boy Walton. Talked like him, too. When I asked about storing the trailer while on the ferry, he said he'd ask his grandma. A little later, while I was getting hooked up, he walked down in the rain to tell me: "She says you can leave it right there for 2 dollars a day." Can't beat a deal like that.
John-Boy also said that fires were permitted. First time I've heard that since Wyoming. There's even free firewood, but it's soaked through, and I couldn't get it to burn with a propane torch. Finally I broke into the stash I've been carrying since Cody, and made some progress.
I have missed having an evening campfire. Fulltiming as I am, my social life rather depends on it. You know, luring in victims with the gift of fire. Since passing into Montana, I've practically become a hermit. People really need an excuse to be friendly with strangers. Without a fire or something like it, they tend to stay shut up in their trailers, talking only to themselves or their wives, and go to bed promptly at 9 pm.
Now I ask you, what kind of life is that?
I did get to know Ernie from Calgary while I was up at Athabasca Glacier, and learned a good deal about eating fish cheeks and livers as a child up in Manitoba. But that was a fluke. His trailer broke down, and I happened to have the wrench he needed to get the bearings off.
Come into my toolbox, said the spider to the fly.
O well. I'm just not clever enough to get away with regularly feigning a breakdown for social purposes, and I haven't got a dog. So I've learned to build a mean fire. Very occasionally I'll even furnish beer. Now there's a thought. Wonder where I can buy a simple small tasteful sign that says "Free Beer?"
Then when they start lining up I can tell 'em it's a want ad, and watch 'em scatter.
This particular fire is going out in all this leafdrip overhead. Looks like I'll have to wait until Tuesday for the next Ferry. With the smokiness this trip, I've about had enough of scenery that can't be seen. Just in case, though, I've packed a bag and set the clock.
If I wake up at 5 am and see the stars, I'm on my way.
Bob
Vancouver Island
Port Hardy, BC
Ralph Lindberg brings good news and bad news. The good news is Ripple Rock Campground, a few miles north of Campbell River.
| I arrived at dusk from the Comox ferry, managed to make it down the washboard road into Brown's Bay with only minor injuries. When I got all my teeth back in, I registered. By the time I was hooked up, it was full dark. |  |
 |
Only a little later it began. Walking back from the laundry, I was struck dumb in mid-whistle, motionless in mid-stride. My mouth fell open. There, entirely filling up the narrow channel of Vancouver Strait with light, drifted a small white planet shining in space, a floating dream of avarice and desire. It seemed an emblem of all you could want, just out of reach. I felt like Adam, fresh out of Eden.
| It was, of course, a cruise ship, returning from Alaska, every light ablaze, passing slowly and majestically on its way to Vancouver. There were 3 more in the next two hours. One after another. |  |
My mother went on such a cruise once, long ago. I remember wishing I could go with her. But now that I can, I can't. There's no escape from character. Left to my own devices, I'm a cheap bastard. So I'm taking the ferry to Prince Rupert.
| In fact, I'm turning into a regular ferry freak. For about $70 US each way, you get half the scenery of a cruise, with none of that fattening gourmet food or the nerve-racking losses at shuffleboard. No gratuities to figure out, no neurotic activities director. Perhaps there's the odd fragrant hitchhiker sleeping across an aisle, but you can step over them. What a deal. Thirty hours up and back, around 600 miles, weaving in and out of vertiginous cloud-draped islands tumbling to the sea. Fjords for the masses. It must be like living inside of one of those elegant old chinese paintings for a while, minus the tiny meditating monks. |  |
How could I resist? How could anyone?
But then there's Ralph's bad news: "the weather is changing." Boy, is it. Every mile toward Port Hardy brought more rain. Then the fog closed in. Somehow I found the ferry terminal, but the lady there was unhelpful about the weather. You would think a marine service would have up to the minute forecasts, but all she could say was "you never know, eh?". Fortunately reservations are not needed if you don't have a vehicle and don't want a bed.
Perhaps I let the weather color my mood a bit. Port Hardy did indeed seem a drab place on a Saturday afternoon. I ate some indifferent prawns at an Oriental restaurant. The Ford dealer couldn't get to an oil change, and the Library was closed. I went looking for a liquor store, hoping for liquid cheer. Next to a hydrant in the parking lot I found a wallet, but it was flat. A couple of credit cards, though, and a driver's license. The lady at the liquor store knew the guy, and called him while I waited. I gathered up some beer, and left the problem with them.
Another way Canada reminds me of the US, forty years ago: Most liquor stores have only a dozen dusty brands of beer, and all of them taste like Bud or Coors. The way they have all this monotony stacked up and priced, they seem to specialize in selling by the case. "You can break a case if you want, though," she allowed reluctantly. I'm looking forward to getting back to where I can find a cold sixpack of Moose Drool, or a single bottle of some strange stout.
After casting about, I ended up at Wildwood Campground, perhaps a mile and a half from the Ferry terminal. This is a charming, older place that reminds me of the rainforest on the Pacific side of Olympic park. High trees dripping moss and gloom, a deep carpet of needles and lichen under foot. The manager was a young man who looked for all the world like John-Boy Walton. Talked like him, too. When I asked about storing the trailer while on the ferry, he said he'd ask his grandma. A little later, while I was getting hooked up, he walked down in the rain to tell me: "She says you can leave it right there for 2 dollars a day." Can't beat a deal like that.
John-Boy also said that fires were permitted. First time I've heard that since Wyoming. There's even free firewood, but it's soaked through, and I couldn't get it to burn with a propane torch. Finally I broke into the stash I've been carrying since Cody, and made some progress.
I have missed having an evening campfire. Fulltiming as I am, my social life rather depends on it. You know, luring in victims with the gift of fire. Since passing into Montana, I've practically become a hermit. People really need an excuse to be friendly with strangers. Without a fire or something like it, they tend to stay shut up in their trailers, talking only to themselves or their wives, and go to bed promptly at 9 pm.
Now I ask you, what kind of life is that?
I did get to know Ernie from Calgary while I was up at Athabasca Glacier, and learned a good deal about eating fish cheeks and livers as a child up in Manitoba. But that was a fluke. His trailer broke down, and I happened to have the wrench he needed to get the bearings off.
Come into my toolbox, said the spider to the fly.
O well. I'm just not clever enough to get away with regularly feigning a breakdown for social purposes, and I haven't got a dog. So I've learned to build a mean fire. Very occasionally I'll even furnish beer. Now there's a thought. Wonder where I can buy a simple small tasteful sign that says "Free Beer?"
Then when they start lining up I can tell 'em it's a want ad, and watch 'em scatter.
This particular fire is going out in all this leafdrip overhead. Looks like I'll have to wait until Tuesday for the next Ferry. With the smokiness this trip, I've about had enough of scenery that can't be seen. Just in case, though, I've packed a bag and set the clock.
If I wake up at 5 am and see the stars, I'm on my way.
Bob
September 4, 2003
The Sunshine Coast
| I left Harrison Hot Springs with a sense of reluctant foreboding. I couldn't escape the uneasy feeling I had found Paradise just a little too soon. Uncrowded, peaceful, convenient, with a sculpture contest, plenty of good restaurants, a hot pool, and a lake long enough to seem like a sea. What else was I looking for? |  |
 |
| Hard to say. Certainly not beauty, which was here in abundance. When I arrived, around noon, I had every intention of moving on to a park, but as the afternoon quietly wore on I realized I was already parked in the perfect spot: right in front of the public pool, a block from the beach. So I just stayed there. There was very little traffic. Around 8 pm I joined a few others on the scattered benches round the beach, watching the sunset. Though we backed up to a city street, the lake reached out and wrapped us in peace. Nothing spectacular, the islands just got dimmer and dimmer till they merged with the blackness of the lake. |  |
Come morning I walked across the street to have breakfast and read the papers. This place is nothing if not convenient. I took another turn through the sand sculptures. The doubles competition was in full swing, and the singles were staking off areas a little further down the beach. They have 25 hours total to complete their project, using only water and the sand they dig up on the spot. There are entries from all over, including New Jersey and several from Texas. Finland sent 3 entries. My favorite was the huge Pterosaur emerging from the sand, half whole and half old bones, as though an archeological dig had come alive.
Finally I ran out of excuses, and left. The trip back through Vancouver was effortless, an exercise in cruise control, and I got on the ferry to Langdale around 1 pm. I picked up all the info I needed for the trip to Prince Rupert. The ferry trip over the bay to Langdale gave me a tiny taste of what I imagine the Inside Passage will be like. In a word, spectacular. Hope this weather holds.
I set out to find a seaside park. First stop was Robert's Creek Provincial Park, a pretty place in a deep-shadowed, murky, enchanted forest, tree-addled sort of way. I came to see the sea, though, so I moved on. When I came to the city of Sechelt, a "Paddler's Paradise" as the brochure on the ferry put it, I followed the signs to Porpoise Bay PP. It is one of a dozen surrounding Sechelt Inlet, and they combine to make a sort of kayaker's highway, with stops only 2-3 hours paddling time apart. Sort of like Flathead Lake was supposed to be.
I spent the afternoon on the beach, watching for the purported porpoises, but to no avail. Perhaps the boats and float planes made it too noisy, so after supper I tried again. There were only a couple of other people there to watch the stars come out. In the distance the lights of the city of Sechelt began to dribble down and lengthen into the still water like melted wax. A three quarter moon trailed a reflection across the middle of the inlet so bright and solid you'd think you could walk on it. The muted honking of geese came drifting out of darkness.
"Ah," I thought, "this is it."
And then, suddenly, almost in answer to the thought, an enormous rumbling and clatter began, about half-way back toward town, sounding something like a slow motion train wreck, or perhaps one of those endless bowlegged coal trains, clackety-clatter, spilling its load on bad track.
"What on earth is that infernal racket?" I asked somebody walking by.
"O, that's the night shift at the gravel pit. They got the rock crusher goin'."
Rock Crusher? Gravel Pit? This wasn't in the brochure!
I tried to ignore it, put it in the background, concentrate on water, moon and stars. Hah.
Did you ever, in the wee hours of the morning, try NOT to hear a dripping faucet? The effort only makes your hearing razor sharp. I began to make out the distant beep, beep, beep of earth moving equipment, backing up. Then a siren wailed in town.
My God. I might as well be in downtown Vancouver. Or Houston. That deep night, which had surrounded me, shrank and flattened, became a mere picture, apart.
It's now 11 o'clock. For some reason they've turned it off just now. But I'm going to bed with earplugs anyway, just in case they have a change of heart.
As that Great Philosopher once said, between beaus: "Tomorrow is another day."
Bob
September 3, 2003
Unlabor Day
Harrison Hot Springs
BC, Canada
Labor day I spent at leisure, walking around Vancouver. A fellow tried to sell me a $9000 silk and wool Persian rug. A bargain, he insists. Sometimes I have good taste, and part of that is not indulging it. Why, you could buy a heart attack for that!
I had lunch in a sidewalk cafe called "Honey's Character", by the Hotel Europe in Gastown. Steak and Prawns. There were some other characters there. A couple of a certain age sat across from me, discussing the menu in French. While I was waiting for my beer, a trio of stringy young men entered from the side and sat down behind them. They were a little grungy, a little loud, a little wrinkled and unwashed. Sported the 5 day beards of the mock Apache. They were joking and laughing in French. The old couple barely paused, then slipped effortlessly into German. Whereupon, after a short silence, the hooligans slid over into what I first thought of as a particularly musical Spanish, and later, after noting a few round vowels, decided must be Portuguese.
It was one of those European moments, a little linguistic two-step of mutual exclusion, a subtle drawing of boundaries. Neither group took any other notice of the other. My contribution was to listen in with a rusty but serviceable English sense of humor.
I understood not a word of it, but I supposed what was going on there was a desire for asymmetric privacy. Each wanted to understand without being understood. I rather prefer the opposite: being understood without having to understand. Language is more beautiful when heard without comprehension. I don't know what birds are saying, either, but that doesn't keep me from enjoying them.
Once you labor to learn a few French phrases, much is lost to you. You must deal with logic, inference, attitude, insult, and retribution. If you can remain ignorant, all is music to your ears. I like being a typical American tourist. Ignorance is the beginning of romance.
Well, that was the only European adventure I had in my walk. All the rest was Asian. Vancouver appears to have become a suburb of Hong Kong. It's not just the people in the street - all of whom can't be tourists - but the skyline. The skyline is much like pictures I have seen of Shanghai. Great apartment blocks are going up, and have gone up, in that popular Asian style of layer cake architecture. Flat roofs, myriad tiny balconies, a hatchwork of different size window, and the lack of any apparent overall statement. Perhaps the statement is fractal - all the building offers the eye can be seen in the smallest part of it. You see one floor, you've seen them all.
At the foot of Davie Street in Yaletown is a modern sculpture that inadvertently sums up the neighborhood. It is a tangled mess of leaning steel, with window-like squares of mesh scattered through it. The sum fails to improve the parts.
I remember what these buildings remind me of. If you look up quickly and away, the hundreds of little squares of translucent and opaque glass give the same impression as hundreds of single-room A/C units leaning and dripping from ledges. That's the sort of thing you used to see in urban slums across the south, fifty years ago. I guess that explains my prejudice against this style. They remind my eye of towering, expensive, instant slums.
All that said, I'd like to live in one. I suspect that looking out those windows is quite a different experience from looking up at them. But it will never happen. Ugly as they are, these condos are advertised as "beginning" at $140K. I like my ugly little trailer, pulled by a purty truck.
Vancouver has some interesting buildings. The Public Library, for instance, is built to suggest the ruin of the Roman Coliseum. But the apartment blocks dominate. The best of them are relieved by setbacks toward the top.
Toward evening I ended up in Stanley Park, having an ale at the Vancouver Rowing Club. I had wondered where all the Caucasians were. I could get into this. A few row manfully by, their oars leaving twin dimples in the bay. A hundred more sit on a barge, drinking ale and roaring their approval. My kind of sport.
I finished up on a bench near the nine o'clock gun, a charming relic of a gentler age. Seems there once was an actual curfew for teenagers, beginning when the gun went off. No excuses. Didn't you hear the cannon?
The gun is never fired these days, but the spit on which it is mounted is a grand place to sit and watch the boats go by, big and small. Here I was reminded that Vancouver was not about architecture, but about commerce and the sea. On the opposite shore you can see a mountain of golden sulphur, waiting for it's ship to come in. Floating palaces drift by, headed for Alaska. Floatplanes rise irregularly to remind you this bay is also a busy airport.
An otter is fishing just below me. It's 7 pm. Time for some sushi.
Looking over this, my comments seem negative. Actually I love Vancouver. It is a grand, crowded, prosperous, complicated, lovely city on the sea.
The question comes unbidden - why leave? I could set up housekeeping here, and dream into my dotage, were it not certain the season will turn....
But leave I will, tomorrow, for the sunshine coast, Port Hardy, the Inside Passage, and perhaps a date with a whale or two. Also, of course, there's a certain campground along the Columbia. Sigh. The sacrifices we are called to make.
Bob
PS: Wade and Gerri have been wonderful hosts. My thanks.
BC, Canada
Labor day I spent at leisure, walking around Vancouver. A fellow tried to sell me a $9000 silk and wool Persian rug. A bargain, he insists. Sometimes I have good taste, and part of that is not indulging it. Why, you could buy a heart attack for that!
I had lunch in a sidewalk cafe called "Honey's Character", by the Hotel Europe in Gastown. Steak and Prawns. There were some other characters there. A couple of a certain age sat across from me, discussing the menu in French. While I was waiting for my beer, a trio of stringy young men entered from the side and sat down behind them. They were a little grungy, a little loud, a little wrinkled and unwashed. Sported the 5 day beards of the mock Apache. They were joking and laughing in French. The old couple barely paused, then slipped effortlessly into German. Whereupon, after a short silence, the hooligans slid over into what I first thought of as a particularly musical Spanish, and later, after noting a few round vowels, decided must be Portuguese.
It was one of those European moments, a little linguistic two-step of mutual exclusion, a subtle drawing of boundaries. Neither group took any other notice of the other. My contribution was to listen in with a rusty but serviceable English sense of humor.
I understood not a word of it, but I supposed what was going on there was a desire for asymmetric privacy. Each wanted to understand without being understood. I rather prefer the opposite: being understood without having to understand. Language is more beautiful when heard without comprehension. I don't know what birds are saying, either, but that doesn't keep me from enjoying them.
Once you labor to learn a few French phrases, much is lost to you. You must deal with logic, inference, attitude, insult, and retribution. If you can remain ignorant, all is music to your ears. I like being a typical American tourist. Ignorance is the beginning of romance.
Well, that was the only European adventure I had in my walk. All the rest was Asian. Vancouver appears to have become a suburb of Hong Kong. It's not just the people in the street - all of whom can't be tourists - but the skyline. The skyline is much like pictures I have seen of Shanghai. Great apartment blocks are going up, and have gone up, in that popular Asian style of layer cake architecture. Flat roofs, myriad tiny balconies, a hatchwork of different size window, and the lack of any apparent overall statement. Perhaps the statement is fractal - all the building offers the eye can be seen in the smallest part of it. You see one floor, you've seen them all.
At the foot of Davie Street in Yaletown is a modern sculpture that inadvertently sums up the neighborhood. It is a tangled mess of leaning steel, with window-like squares of mesh scattered through it. The sum fails to improve the parts.
I remember what these buildings remind me of. If you look up quickly and away, the hundreds of little squares of translucent and opaque glass give the same impression as hundreds of single-room A/C units leaning and dripping from ledges. That's the sort of thing you used to see in urban slums across the south, fifty years ago. I guess that explains my prejudice against this style. They remind my eye of towering, expensive, instant slums.
All that said, I'd like to live in one. I suspect that looking out those windows is quite a different experience from looking up at them. But it will never happen. Ugly as they are, these condos are advertised as "beginning" at $140K. I like my ugly little trailer, pulled by a purty truck.
Vancouver has some interesting buildings. The Public Library, for instance, is built to suggest the ruin of the Roman Coliseum. But the apartment blocks dominate. The best of them are relieved by setbacks toward the top.
Toward evening I ended up in Stanley Park, having an ale at the Vancouver Rowing Club. I had wondered where all the Caucasians were. I could get into this. A few row manfully by, their oars leaving twin dimples in the bay. A hundred more sit on a barge, drinking ale and roaring their approval. My kind of sport.
I finished up on a bench near the nine o'clock gun, a charming relic of a gentler age. Seems there once was an actual curfew for teenagers, beginning when the gun went off. No excuses. Didn't you hear the cannon?
The gun is never fired these days, but the spit on which it is mounted is a grand place to sit and watch the boats go by, big and small. Here I was reminded that Vancouver was not about architecture, but about commerce and the sea. On the opposite shore you can see a mountain of golden sulphur, waiting for it's ship to come in. Floating palaces drift by, headed for Alaska. Floatplanes rise irregularly to remind you this bay is also a busy airport.
An otter is fishing just below me. It's 7 pm. Time for some sushi.
Looking over this, my comments seem negative. Actually I love Vancouver. It is a grand, crowded, prosperous, complicated, lovely city on the sea.
| All that's behind me. This morning bought new tires for the trailer and set off for Harrison Hot Springs. It is an idyllic place. A deep lake with rounded green mountains tumbling steeply into the water. Maybe it's just talking to Wade, but I feel a resemblance to Lake Lugano in Switzerland. All you need are a scattering of red-tiled villas. |  |
 |
| But just as it is ain't bad. A wide beach, with an international Sand Castle Sculpture contest at the east end. Balmy breezes, bright sun, golden sand, a cold lake to swim in, a hot pool to relax in, an impromptu supper of bagels sliced thin and slathered with smoked salmon and cream cheese, a half bottle of cabernet - stop me when you are convinced, I could go on. |  |
 |
The question comes unbidden - why leave? I could set up housekeeping here, and dream into my dotage, were it not certain the season will turn....
But leave I will, tomorrow, for the sunshine coast, Port Hardy, the Inside Passage, and perhaps a date with a whale or two. Also, of course, there's a certain campground along the Columbia. Sigh. The sacrifices we are called to make.
Bob
PS: Wade and Gerri have been wonderful hosts. My thanks.
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