THE ICING ON THE CAKE

From Masset we thumbed a ride with a carpenter (a common occupation, these people popped up everywhere we went) to Port Clements so he and Eric had plenty to talk about. We got on to the subject of epoxy (which Eric used on the cedar-strip canoe) and the carpenter said he used to work with epoxy. Then he started to lose his hair and vomit and generally feel sick because the epoxy was slowly poisoning him, so now he doesn’t touch the stuff. Yikes!

He dropped us off on the outskirts of Port Clements where we waited for another ride to finish the 45 min ride to a provincial campground near Tlell. Tlell was known in the ‘60s and ‘70s as a hippie hub and still has many of the original draft dodgers, artists and the like living there and so has a few artisan shops. After getting a ride with an elderly man to the campground and setting up we decided to walk through the settlement and check this little hippie haven out.

Although Tlell doesn’t exactly have a central village area and all the houses are spread out, we managed to visit three of its craft shops before they closed. However, our legs didn’t appreciate the continued walking and yelled at us the entire way there and back.

That evening (Wednesday, May 23) we crawled into our sleeping bags, feeling tacky, sticky, grimy and all together disgusting. We hadn’t showered since the Sea Raven Motel, a full six days earlier. Our clothes stank and still showed some evidence of the death march. Eric discovered that if he kept rubbing the same spot on his body, the dirt and sweat combination would roll into lumps and then he could flick them onto the ground. He managed to clean his left shoulder using this backpacker’s washing-without-water method.


What, more walking?

We were starting to get low on food, so the next morning we decided to walk a short way up the highway to a convenience/grocery store depicted on the tourist map. We couldn’t remember having seen it when driving from Port Clements to the campground, but the tourist map said it was there, so it had to be there, right?

We walked down the highway, not hitchhiking because the store was maybe two kilometres away. We must have walked about five kilometres or so when we finally had to admit that the tourist guide had to be wrong. We thought about our options. We knew Port Clements was about another 20 kilometres up the road and would for sure have a grocery store. And after that error on the tourist guide, how could we be sure that Tlell had any kind of a grocery store? We also realized that Port Clements would be the only village on the Charlottes that we might not see as we were going to Sandspit on Moresby Island in two days for our tour. So we stuck out our thumbs and tried for a ride.

A big Ford F-350 rumbled over the hill toward us and came to a halt as the gravel crunched under its big knobby tires. We jumped in and were greeted by a woman in, what looked to be, a mobile office. We soon learned that this woman was an engineer soon to write her Canadian Forestry Exam. This test certifies someone as a forester in Canada and as she told us is very important to her career in forestry. It was a little weird to suddenly be sitting with what we had previously considered to be the “enemy.” The Charlottes are a place of tension when it comes to the topic of logging. Many people feel the ancient forest is being ravaged with no limits and people are frustrated and even angry about it. But after talking to this woman logger in her huge truck we got the impression that she also wanted the harvesting of trees to be sustainable. (Although, each group probably has a different definition of what the word sustainable means.)

She dropped us off at the grocery store in Port (local lingo for Port Clements). We bought groceries (although by this time, no store-bought food looked appetizing or appealing) and looked high and low for a coffee shop as the headaches were starting. But we quickly realized we would not feed our addiction in Port Clements and would have to expand our search to a wider geographical area. We hitched a ride with a new mom who told us of a bakery/coffee shop that was on the far side of Tlell and better yet she was going by and needed to go there anyway. On the way, she stopped at the only animal feed place on the islands to pick up some feed for her chickens. She left Rachel in the car with her new baby while Eric went to go fetch the sack from the warehouse for her. As he hoisted the heavy sack on his shoulder he had a pang of homesickness when he saw “Chilliwack” as the place of origin on the sack.

When we entered Tlell’s sole bakery/café, a young woman kneading dough greeted us with a smile. We ordered coffees, of course, a cinnamon bun without cinnamon (see photo), a muffin, and later returned for some soup, which was spectacular. We sat and wrote in our journals for hours. Eric talked with a retired police officer from the area who talked about the days when draft dodgers from the states would come and squat on the land. He even knew of a man who had been caught planning an assassination in the States and come to the Charlottes to avoid the authorities; the would-be assassin never caused any problems here, though.


Strange encounters – of the best kind

On our way back to our campsite, we got a ride with a young man about our age and his mom, and after the usual introductions discovered that the guy, Jan, had attended Sardis Secondary in Chilliwack! Eric told Jan his name and he exclaimed, “You’re Eric de Waal?” (Somewhat embarrassingly, Eric didn’t experience a similar moment of recognition.) A further oddity was that Jan’s mom was also scheduled to go on the same tour that we were, the tour that everyone we talked to raved about and said would be worth every penny.

We arrived back at the campsite and decided to go on a 10-kilometre hike to the Pesuta shipwreck, as the trailhead was only a couple hundred metres from our campground. Also, we knew for sure that this hike was 10 kilometres round trip, not one-way. And it was well marked. (For real this time.)

The path eventually led past the Tlell River and we spotted two fly fishermen gently swinging their rods into the water. It looked like a painting so Eric tried to capture the scene with the camera. We had to walk closer to get a better shot and once we were within speaking range one of the fishermen called out, “How was your hike on the east beach?” We craned our heads and strained our eyes to get a closer look at this mystery fellow. Obviously he could see our confusion, because he pointed at himself and said, “The guys on the quad, remember?”

We were both floored. The coincidental events that took place on the islands seemed so peculiar to us. How could we meet these guys again beside this remote river in the quiet wilderness, what were the chances? Yet it seemed as though Haida Gwaii in its ancient wisdom was casually allowing these things to happen to all who visit. We chatted with the two guys for a while then continued on our walk.

When we arrived at the Pesuta we were shocked to see how huge it was. We had seen pictures of the bow section of this log carrier that ran aground 80 years ago in almost every tourist guide we looked at, but this thing was really huge. We each attempted to take some artistic photos, concentrating on the lines of the boat, and when we turned around to grab some snacks from our backpack, we were alarmed to see a thick fog almost enveloping us. We could hardly see our bag, about 15 feet away. So, instead of lingering and admiring the beauty of the wilderness as we had planned, we quickly started on the five-kilometre trek back to camp.

While it had been raining off and on since our night at Miche’s house in Tow Hill, that night it really started coming down and it didn’t stop in the morning. For the first time ever, we had to pack up in a soaking downpour, as we had to make it to Sandspit that evening for our pièce de résistance – the tour of Gwaii Haanas – on Saturday.


Misery strikes, then lifts, then triumphs

Not only was it difficult and frustrating to try to keep the majority of our stuff dry (we didn’t know when we’d be able to dry it out), but the little bugs that had been bothering us, also since Miche’s, were really starting to drive us nuts by flying into our noses, eyes and ears.

We finally got all strapped up and started walking down the highway in the rain, hoping somebody would soon have mercy on us. A man in a small pickup pulled over and Eric recognized him as someone who had been walking his dog through our campsite and had chatted with us. The kindly gentleman not only gave us a ride, but invited us into his house, located just down the road, to warm up with tea and homemade soup. And after a nice visit he sent us off with a jar of home-canned salmon.

This was not something we were used to. People were not afraid of hitchhikers here and their generosity and hospitality compensated for the severity of the islands.

We soon made it to Skidegate and this time stopped to check it out - we needed to get over $300 in cash from an ATM to pay for our tour and were also excited to visit the carving sheds. The tourist guide said we might see people carving if we dropped in during visiting hours and a big sign outside the sheds said open Monday to Friday 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. We arrived around three o’clock on Friday and not a soul could be found. It was locked up tight as a drum, but we shouldn’t have been surprised.

Disappointed we dragged ourselves across town, which was no small feat, and found the bank machine (we actually had to find two; the first one was out of order). Then we continued walking in the direction of the ferry (yes, we needed to take yet another ferry to get to Sandspit). Rachel was convinced we would pass a coffee shop “just around the next corner” and didn’t think we needed to hitchhike. Eric was tired of walking and wanted to get a ride. Lucky for Rachel, the greenhouse/coffee shop did appear around the next bend.

Luckily for both of us it was worth waiting all day to get our shot of java. When we asked for dark roast coffee, the proprietor pulled out a bag of fair trade organic beans and ground them before our eyes. It was the best coffee of our whole trip.

During our chat with the owner, we discovered that if we had arrived less than two hours earlier we could have paid $10 each to go on a guided tour of the Haida Heritage Centre. When we talked to the tourist info people on Saturday, the cultural centre was totally closed. But on Tuesday, the cultural centre decided to offer private tours at 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. Monday to Friday until the regular season started. Yup, just another disappointment. Nothing new on this trip. We decided to walk around the buildings of the cultural and try to look in the windows, but we couldn’t see anything. But hey, at least we had our south islands tour.

We rode the small ferry to Moresby Island (click on this map's links for more info about Moresby Island and Sandspit) and got a ride to Sandspit’s lone campground from two fishing guides. They drove us past the fishing lodge where they worked and pointed out the huge bald hill behind the lodge. They explained that the rich Albertan who owned the lodge couldn’t stand all the bugs so he decided that clear cutting the hill behind the lodge would be good pest control.

We were the sole campers in the Sandspit campground, which cost us $10/night, the cheapest rate we had paid yet. After setting up and eating supper (while trying to avoid the horrid bugs) we decided to walk around and check out this little community. As we walked down the main road, we saw a sign that said “Moresby Explorers,” our tour guide company. Although we had arranged for them to pick us up the next morning at 7 a.m. from Sandspit’s only campground, we wanted to triple check that they knew where to find us.

We were welcomed in by two woman and after we explained who we were, they said, “We were just going to come looking for you.” They proceeded to (figuratively) rip the beating hearts out of our chests while we stood there, helplessly.

They guides told us that the tour would likely be cancelled due to engine trouble on the hard-bottomed Zodiak that was assigned for our trip. After all the disappointments and discouragements of our trip, this was definitely the icing on the cake. And not the yummy cream cheese icing on carrot cake; no, this was the nausea-inducing coloured stuff that’s layered onto the cheap cake you pick up from a rundown grocery store. The women told us to come back in 45 minutes or so to see if they had found a solution to the problem. So we walked down the road and complained to each other at our luck. Why did this place hate us so much? What had we done to deserve this?

After reaching the end of Sandspit’s main (only?) paved road, we turned back and stopped by the Moresby Explorers office a second time. The women said unless they could find another boat to use by the morning the tour was cancelled, but they would come to our campsite around 6:45 a.m. the next morning to let us know either way.


Encouragement from an unexpected source – rich Americans

Despite being pretty sure that the tour wouldn’t happen, we woke up early and got our essentials together just in case. But, one guide showed up at 6:45 and said, nope the tour was cancelled today, but we were welcome to come on Monday’s tour. Right. Monday was the day our ferry left for the mainland and since most ferries were booked full, who knew which ferry we’d be able to get on if we skipped our reserved sailing. And we did not have the money to stay much longer on the islands. So, what could we do with ourselves for the next two days? Sandspit didn’t even have a coffee shop.

We walked two kilometres to the closest payphone, at the marina, and tried arranging either a tour with another company (nope, nothing available today on such short notice) or an immediate flight home to Vancouver (nope, the cost was over $300 per person, definitely over our budget). So, we tried phoning our families so they could take pity on us.

While Rachel was on the phone, Eric started chatting with the only two other people in the immediate vicinity. (He has an internal radar for finding random people to talk to.) The woman was the wharfinger and the man, John, had just sailed his yacht over here from Washington to berth it until the summer, when he and his wife would fly back to the Charlottes for a holiday.

Although we were enjoying the conversation, Eric and I suddenly realized we would have to start hitchhiking to make it to the ferry if we wanted to get to Queen Charlotte City before the day was half over. When we excused ourselves and explained where we were going, John said, “Well, why don’t you come with us?” He and his son Clay, who had made the sailing from the U.S. with him, were also planning to go to Charlotte City that day.

We could hardly believe it. Invited by a stranger (an American, no less!) to go sailing on a beautiful yacht!! The experience was fantastic!

Eric was trying to learn everything he can about the world of boats and made nautical-related conversation. “You guys must spend a ton of money on rope!” “It’s called line,” said John, correcting Eric’s boat lingo. A few minutes later, Eric tried out his new word and said, “You must have a pretty big rope, I mean line, on your anchor.” John laughed. “Actually, on an anchor it’s called rope!”

When we got to Queen Charlotte City, we walked with them to the tourist info building and then offered to buy them lunch to thank them for taking us sailing. (We also wanted to continue our enjoyable conversation.) But John must have sensed our poverty and insisted on paying the bill, which included a delicious piece of apple pie.

The pair finally left, but we stayed in the café, Queen Bees, for a few more hours to sip our coffee and write in our journals before eventually hitching back to the ferry.


Our final, lazy, day on the Charlottes

Once on the ferry, Eric eyed up the vehicles on board to determine which would be the likeliest to give us a ride to our campground in Sandspit (about 10 to 20 kilometres from the ferry terminal). We had learned (finally, at the end of our trip) that instead of getting off the ferry and trying to run ahead of the cars to hitch, it was easier to just ask people as they sat in their cars on the ferry. Besides this way they really couldn’t get away from us. It’s much harder to say no to someone’s face than to wave politely as you zoom by. Our target was a brand new campervan at the front of the line. Since we were interested in living in something similar in the future, we thought it would be a good idea to get a first-hand view of the inside.

Eric knocked on the door and through the small crack of the open window asked the passenger if they could give us a ride. The newly retired husband and wife hummed and hawed then finally agreed. We could tell that had they seen us on the side of the road with our thumbs out it was likely they would not have stopped to pick us up. We learned that they were both retired teachers from Ottawa who had to come to the west coast for a wedding and decided to rent a campervan and check out the sites while they were here. They dropped us off at the campsite and we whittled away another evening with crib and reading.

On Sunday we lazed in our sleeping bags for some time, despite their saturation of sweat and dirt. Finally we decided to walk to the Sandspit Airport to look around and watch the one departure of the day take off. We also needed to buy some food for the ferry, this time stuff that didn’t need to be microwaved.

As we walked down the road, a vehicle passed us and pulled over to the shoulder in front of us. The doors opened, and out jumped Juan, the fellow from Argentina we had arrived on the islands with. Another weird coincidence, what was with this place? We talked for a brief moment as he was in a hurry, before continuing on to the airport.

After perusing the airport’s gift store until we had memorized its merchandise, we wandered over to the town’s sole hotel/restaurant/bar to kill time and maybe catch the Ottawa Senators playing Game 3 of the Stanley Cup. Unfortunately, they weren’t playing that Sunday.

We walked back to our campsite, but Eric continued on to the payphone at the marina to make some calls.

Eric says:
On my way back from the phone, I noticed about 13 eagles diving and hovering over one area on the beach. I went to investigate and found a few middle-aged men also watching the spectacle. I found out they had thrown meat scraps from the local supermarket onto the beach for the eagles to enjoy. I quickly found myself listening to a conversation that was being dominated by a man whose vocabulary tended to rhyme with words like duck and spit. I read between the lines and realized he was a logging executive who talked about cutting down trees as if he were mowing his lawn. I asked him what he thought of the pine beetle and what its impact would be on B.C.’s forestry industry.

“It will devastate it,” said the man. “Logging will be finished for the most part in B.C. in a matter of years. The effect of the pine beetle is really something to see. Actually the best way to see it’s impact is from the air – ” he broke off and eyed me up and down, “ – but then, that option isn’t available to everyone.”

I wanted to ask where he was from, but I was afraid to hear his answer.


Saying goodbye to Haida Gwaii

We packed up our site early on the morning of Monday, May 28. We easily caught a ride to the ferry, which landed at the same ferry terminal that the Queen of Prince Rupert would depart from.

We soon boarded the now-familiar QPR with mixed emotions. We were excited to shower. (It was now a full 10 days since our last cleansing. But we didn’t smell, so unless you pulled Rachel’s toque off her head, it was hard to tell how dirty we really were.) But despite all our disappointments on the Charlottes, we were sad to realize that our island travels were coming to a close.

We expected to arrive in Prince Rupert mid-afternoon (where we had arranged to meet a shuttle van from the hostel where we planned to shower and do laundry), hang out in Rupert on Tuesday, then catch the VIA Rail train to Prince George on Wednesday morning.

We were about three hours into the sailing when we heard the announcement. Over the PA system, we listened in disbelief as the chief steward explained that Highway 16 had been closed near Terrace due to a massive mudslide and probably wouldn’t reopen for another week. Drivers would have to take a six-hour detour on secondary roads to get to Prince George. We were unsure whether the slide had also blocked off the railroad, but we soon found out.