Island adventures

Port Renfrew
On Sunday, Jen and I made the two-and-a-half hour car ride to Barnacle Beach, located north-west of Victoria on the western coast of Vancouver Island. We parked the car and made our way to the Juan de Fuco trail, one of the many that line this coast of the island, and tried to find a path to the beach. After nearly forty minutes of hiking and assuming we must have missed a sign, we found some steps leading toward the pacific ocean.




And there it was. Milky white water rushed between two beds of rock, foaming and rising, slowly retreating. It was sexual. I got giddy like I'd never been giddy before. The only thing I could think of that compared to its magnificence was the fountain at the Eaton Center that shoots up water at unsuspecting shoppers from the ground floor to the third. Yeah. That's sad. No wonder seeing gushing water hit rocks was a religious experience.







After all the hiking and the rock finding and the sea-urchin touching and the ocean admiring, we were hungry. We drove out to a nice grassy spot down the way and dined on swiss cheese sandwiches, apples, whole tomatoes, and sliced green peppers. Jen also made a delightful lime and water drink that she stored in an empty wine bottle. I think it's a great idea for a reusable liquid receptacle. Recycle, reuse, look like a drunk in public. Aww yeah.



We took the long, scenic route back to Victoria and what I saw out my window was not just oceans and bears and three-hundred year-old trees. The Trans-Canada highway wound us up and down mountains, revealing hidden and not-so-hidden patches of deforestation. It's strange - a big lush forest with a wide chunk of nothing in between. Like a hairy man's back after one painful wax strip has ripped off three inches of hair. Or like big pubic mounds of hair RIPPED from their roots in horribly unexpected bursts. Isn't that an awful image? Deforestation is basically land-rape. Imagine (or, ladies, go back to that elementary school fight where you and that girl totally rumbled) getting your hair ripped out, without any context or forewarning - someone just comes up to you while you're maxin' and relaxin' and pulls your hair out by the handful. Then, as a severance, offers you some cheap and poorly cultivated hair-plugs to cover up the spot. Yeah, that'll do it. And the hair grows really slowly, so you look stupid. Deforestation is ugly, brutal land-rape. But that's progress, right?




When we arrived in Victoria, Jen decided to give me a tour of downtown since I hadn't seen it yet. I'm not sure why I liked it so much, but I was filled with heretical anti-Toronto feelings and the strong urge to leave my birthplace and move here. The architecture is beautiful, it's on the water, there are amazing views of the city and of the Olympic mountains, the people are super chill, there are gardens, it's a small city close to the bush. I thought about transferring schools. The University of Victoria has amazing creative writing classes, and I thought maybe I could finish my undergrad there. But considering I'm going into my forth year, I figured I might as well finish my undergrad at home this year, then do my masters out there. So anyway, that's a life plan for you - finish school then move out here and do some more.

The Road to Tofino: Wibbletree Junction and Chemainus
On Monday I said goodbye to Jen, my most gracious host, and hello to Trisha, my new friend from the ferry. We got in her big red Government of Canada: Natural Resources pick-up truck and rode toward Tofino where she'd be fixing seismographs. The government was paying for this trip. They covered transportation, gas, accommodation, AND she was getting paid for the work - 20 minutes of unscrewing the lid of a little box and changing the battery. It's not difficult work, but it shouldn't be taken lightly either - these little boxes warn the residents of Vancouver Island about impending earthquakes and tsunamis. Serious stuff, but also pretty awesome stuff.

Trisha had mentioned there was a place called Wibbletree Junction advertised on the TourismBC signs along the highway. She said she went once to see what it was - a giant tree, perhaps? a junction of preserved ancient roads? criss-crossing train tracks at a tree called Wibble? Turns out Wibbletree Junction is a thrift store. A thrift store! Trisha was surprised a thrift store could make it to the TourismBC signs, but I believed in the magic before I even saw the place.

It was a warehouse for antiques and curious items. Old parlour video games, jukeboxes, lamps and chairs and cabinets. Plates, bowls, a vase of every colour and style. They also had an extensive clothes section. That day, all garments were 99 cents. I found a 60s-70s era London Fog raincoat that I was willing to splurge on, but found out happily at the cash register about the sale. Very happily. Hallelujah happily. I like a good sale.





When we met, Trisha said something about a small town called Chemainus. Like many towns on the Island, the main industry was forestry and the main employer the pulp mill. When the mill shut down and made their economy mulch (hurrrr), the town commissioned local artists to paint 39 outdoor murals on buildings and houses highlighting the history and culture of Chemainus. A tactic that seems to have worked out pretty well for them: 300,000 people a year pass through the town of 5,000 and bear witness to one of Canada's biggest outdoor art galleries.









Ladysmith
I had a date with Ladysmith the moment I got on the Island. It's where my dad and Pamela Anderson were born, the former leaving when he was two, and returning once to visit in 1979. While he was there he took a picture of himself (before it was popular) in front of the railway station in Ladysmith, commemorating his father who worked as a logger and as a rail man. I told my dad that when I got to Ladysmith I'd take a picture of myself in front of the railway station too, thirty years later, to commemorate him.

But first we had to find the place. There's a rickety train that runs everyday from Victoria to Courtenay and back - a two-car passenger train that is engine and caboose. It moves very slowly because there are many stops and many attempted suicides. Sad, but true. The stations are small and as far as I know, don't include a ticket kiosk because you pay on the train. It's some old timey goodness. The station in Ladysmith is hidden away and boarded up, but with two makeshift parking spots nearby, people get on and off without a problem.

I went into a marina and asked two men where I could find the train station. I forgot I was wearing my conductor's hat. "So wait, you don't know where you put the train?" one of them asked. "I got drunk last night and I can't find it!" They told me it was up the hill. There were trains however, calling our names. They weren't barricaded which meant that we had free-reign over the steam engine and the boxcar. Hilarious photo sequence, begin.









For Dad.


Tofino
We arrived at our destination after a pitstop in Ucluelet where we (that is, Trisha - I only watched and held a light) fixed a seismograph, located in the crawlspace under a janitor's closet of a local high school. After that awesomeness, we found a bed and breakfast called Paddler's Inn right on the water for $89/night. It was a nice place with a comfy bed and a great view, all a humble traveler could ask for. We decided we'd buy some food at the grocery store to cook at the B&B, though it was against the official policy of no-cooking-in-our-breakfast-kitchen. They said that as long as the smells weren't too strong (the kitchen and the rooms are on the same floor), we could cook. Together we made a delicious vegetable stir-fry, with some black beans and the famous Sophandrea barley and oat combo, which involves mixing rolled oats and barley in a pot and cooking it like rice. Mmm, mmm, MMM!



The next day, after we passed out on wine and tarot cards, we signed ourselves up for surfing lessons at the Surf Sister Surf School. I was feeling a bit nervous about shreadin' mad waves at Chesterman Beach, having never done it before. A group of us met at the school, did a roll call, introduced ourselves and got friendly, then hopped back into our vehicles to head for the beach. We had been assigned wet suits based on our height and weight, so ours were waiting for us when we arrived. They take at least five minutes to squeeze a body through - the foam becomes skin. Then we were assigned to a teacher, Naomi from Wales, who showed Trisha and I the theory and practice of surfing.

Wet suits are amazing. I didn't feel the cold Pacific water at all. Without one, I would have surely been dead. I left my borrowed-from-Katie camera on the beach while I surfed so I could take a picture of us after a hard day's work. We surfed for two-and-a-half hours and I rocked that biz, standing up a couple times on my board. There's something nice about being in the water and playing with it like that, riding out the waves instead of attempting to stop them. The king of cups is a surfer, a master of the emotions, the smooth rider of emotional waves. When the lesson was over I walked back to the sand with my board in hand, invigorated and tired, excited to take a picture of this moment. Naomi tried to turn the camera on. She handed it to me - I couldn't turn it on either. Sand and salt water invaded the camera and toasted it's ass. Sorry Katie, but I think it's broken for good. Forgivinus please.

Nanaimo
Trisha dropped me off in Nanaimo and after some confusion and some goodbyes, I jumped into a car driven by Jenette, my new couch surfing host for the next two nights. She and her husband Marc live in Cedar, a town ten minutes away from Nanaimo, in a house that makes me want to jump for joy and scream THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACE I'VE EVER SEEN! There's one guest bedroom, a very large bathroom ("I like my bathrooms big," Jenette says) and the rest is big open space, with stairs that lead to the master bedroom, loft-styles. There's a patio overlooking the mountain landscape, and a hot tub, too. The cool thing about couch surfing is that I can stay in a nicer place than I could hope to afford. I was in heaven.

They've got that mineral water, that soft and silky shower water flowing through the pipes. Showering was nice though the water on its own smells and tastes like liquid rotten eggs. A small price to pay for soft skin (and all the other benefits). In the evening we were invited to Peter the 70 years-and-going Norweigan Navy Man's converted fishing boat, now home. The three of us went over and I was introduced to a sea of interesting characters including Jill, Tracy and Milt, all of whom were at least 40 years old. We set sail, drank beer, discussed Ladysmith, told stories, admired the scenery, passed around a joint (!!!!) and ate sushi and nachos. It was an amazing night I won't forget.

I'd planned to spend the next night in Courtenay but when I emailed my host to confirm, she responded that her sister would be staying over and that there was no room for me. Plan = thwarted. Jenette quickly offered her sons' house in Victoria, an option I deliberated on for a while. Then I decided, what the hell, I'll go stay in a house full of mostly single guys in their 20s for a night or two. What's the worst that can happen? I trust Jenette to whip them into shape if they step outta line. So back on the train I went, met by Jessie who I recognized immediately because his mother had showed me all his photos on facebook. "I know what you looked like in 2007," I told him.

Victoria
That happened yesterday, and today I sit in a comfy leather chair in Jessie's penthouse suite upstairs. He graciously offered me his room while I'm here, which is a very nice gesture. Five guys live here, I think, and they all work in construction. They're off at around 7:30 AM and back between 4:00-6:00. So here I am alone, in this big empty house, with time to finally set my experiences down in writing. It's heavenly. Oh, and yesterday we partied pretty hard. Well, I mean, not too hard, I want to be conscious enough to swat away dicks from my butt if the situation calls for it. But naw, they're really nice guys, they're not pulling stuff like that. I mean, maybe they'd try... but ain't no dicks gettin' in my butt, okay? Shit.