Back on the Continent

The Hecate Strait Witch got her revenge last night. Although we were optimistic about boarding on time in Skidegate, the first clue was the announcement that access to the car deck would be restricted to a one-time visit early in the trip. The unspoken message was: grab what you need, then settle in for a rockin’ good time. I was glad we had reserved a stateroom, even though the only one left had four bunks. That meant I had to sit like a hunched-over pretzel to avoid knocking myself senseless during a nocturnal visit to the loo. I shouldn’t have worried. Sleep? What sleep? The ship rolled, groaned, chattered, complained, and occasionally let off gunshot-like bangs. In the bunk opposite me, Dave snored blissfully and later commented, “It was like being rocked to sleep.” I, on the other hand, felt as though I was in a cement mixer, my feet braced against the wall to keep me from launching through the porthole, while my Hail Marys were clearly audible to all. Eventually, I managed to drift off. Maybe six minutes later, the stateroom lights abruptly snapped on and the robotic BC Ferries voice announced that it was time to get up and start the day. Awesome. It was 4:30 a.m. Happy to report, however, that unloading was relatively speedy, and by 5:00 a.m. we were heading east on Highway 16 through a landscape draped in mist that gradually gave way to brilliant sunshine. Somewhere just west of Smithers, we came upon a beautiful viewpoint and pulled over to capture the glorious valley above, framed by its surrounding mountains. It was too early to check into our lodging, so we meandered through this charming little town, stopped for a refreshment, and eventually arrived at our beautiful retreat at the base of Hudson Bay Mountain in the Bulkley Valley. Feet up, World Cup on, and cheering Canada on against Qatar. 3-0 so far.

Leaving, Becoming

As the ferry slips away from these islands late tonight, I am carrying far more than memories. I leave with gratitude, renewed curiosity, and the quiet excitement of knowing that this journey is not really ending at all. It is simply becoming something new. Over these past days, a spark has been steadily growing into the first pages of my next book - a subject that has been patiently waiting for me, one that feels deeply important and profoundly personal. Sometimes inspiration doesn’t arrive like lightning. Sometimes it gathers, almost unnoticed, until one day you realize it has become a flame. Here is the greatest gift that travel can give us. It is not simply to show us somewhere new, but to give us the space and the spirit to discover what has been quietly waiting within us all along.

Some Days Stay With You

Twenty-six miles down an excellent gravel road north of Masset lies the environmentally protected wilderness of North Graham Island—about as far north as you can travel without bumping into Japan. As usual, we were the only vehicle on the road, and our speed slowed to a crawl as we entered the most striking rainforest we have ever seen. Words cannot begin to describe its density, its lushness, or the wild extravagance of nature as it unfolded in layer upon layer, each generation growing, decaying, and giving life to the one that follows. The moss on the trees was beyond description. It hung so heavily from the branches that it formed fanciful shapes and figures high overhead. Monkey moss. Halloween trees wearing ballgowns. Upside-down sloths. Creatures with furry tails. More than once I was certain I had spotted a bear in a tree, only to realize it was a massive cloak of moss creeping along the branches and draping itself into perfect paws. It was a Hobbit forest, full of magic and imagination, and I know I will never forget it. Not far beyond, we found the trailhead to Tow Hill and the Blow Hole. The trail, although a bit daunting with hundreds of stairs to reach the summit, was a meticulous example of forest management. Elevated boardwalks carried us over the sensitive bog areas, protecting the fragile ecosystem while still allowing us to experience it up close. With my quadriceps reminding me at every stair that my seventy-first birthday was only days away, I paused often to breathe the clear ocean air, refill my lungs, and carry on. The view from the summit was worth every step. We took a long pause to bank it in memory. The day had already become one I knew I would remember, and the descent was surprisingly easy. Agate Beach offered a different kind of wonder. The waves rolled ashore with a gentle rush, but it was their retreat that captured my heart. As each wave slipped back into the Pacific, thousands of smooth pebbles chattered together, tumbling over one another before being drawn once again into the sea. The sound was rhythmic, primal, and utterly enchanting. I could have stood there for hours, listening. The beach was scattered with treasures. Honey-coloured agates, red jasper, beautifully veined stones, weathered shells—and, hidden among them, my favourites of all: wish rocks. I have always loved wish rocks. The best ones wear a single white band that circles them completely, as if the sea itself had tied a ribbon around them. There were so many wish rocks hidden among the agates and the red jasper that I had to pause frequently and lock a special wish in my heart for every one of my loved ones. I hold each rock tightly, think of someone I love or a hope I cannot carry alone, then turn my back to the Pacific and throw it over my left shoulder. Whether the wish is granted seems almost beside the point. The real gift is learning to release it.