Islands

Sarah at the end of the Ripple Rock trail north of Campbell River, looking over Seymour Narrows to Quadra Island.

This summer Sarah has been busy studying for her professional forester exam and working up the BC coast and in the drier interior on lengthy camp shifts. I've continued to brew. We have found time for island excursions, attracted by the plethora floating between Vancouver Island and the British Columbian mainland.

Early in the year we stayed with our friend Eric, as he house-sat on Quadra Island, just across the water from Campbell River. The weather was gloomy, but the view gorgeous.


Hornby is especially hard to resist in the summer. Sarah's parents know all about location, location, location, their house perched at the edge of the High Salal cliff overlooking Tribune Bay. We were blessed with glorious summer days and baptised our bodies in the salty waters of the bay.


Below: the evening view north from Hornby, in the general direction of Campbell River.


Our friends Trevor and Kate were bound for Dublin. Towards the end of their time in Campbell River we were fortunate enough to join them on Mithrandir, Trevor's 35 foot sailing vessel. Our destination was Marina Island, east of Campbell River. We encountered light winds and starter motor failure, but more beer and hefty hits with a hammer provided solutions.


We rendezvoused with Eric and crew aboard his powerboat Sparky. We anchored in Uganda Passage, the channel between uninhabited Marina and the larger Cortes Island. Some rowed ashore to set camp at Shark Spit, while the rest went with Eric to haul in prawn and crab traps.

The Dungeness crab is considered something of a delicacy here in the Pacific Northwest. We had a small haul of crab and a decent catch of Spot prawns, plenty enough to satisfy our crowd.

As the two vessel captains pondered the powerful West Coast tides and reset anchors, a fire was lit and feasting begun. Liquor there was, and songs and bending of elbows.

Mithrandir sailed early the next day. Sarah and I boarded Sparky and we investigated the marine sanctuary at Middlenatch Island, south of Quadra, before throwing a couple of lines in the water and trolling, unsuccessfully, for salmon.

Eric and Alana, the next morning with the tide out, our campsite at Shark Spit in the background.

Our last island trip was to Pender Island, one of a cluster known as the Southern Gulf Islands. The climate is drier: Pender falls within the Coastal Douglas Fir biogeoclimatic zone, whereas Campbell River and the majority of Vancouver Island is within the moister Coastal Western Hemlock zone. Arbutus, an evergreen with smooth reddish peeling bark, reminds me of eucalypts, preferring the drier ecosystem, clinging to rocky bluffs. We visited the Pender farmers' market, a blend of hippy vibes, green ethics, and artistic kitsch. I bought a tee shirt made by a member of Islands Fold, an artist collective.

We were on Pender for the wedding of Amy and Lee. I'd met Amy at Pumpkin Pull, a Hallowe'en-themed ultimate tournament, in 2003, and Lee subsequently in Korea when we were all teaching on the peninsula. We played a bride versus groom game of ultimate the afternoon before the wedding, a relaxed affair. The ceremony was held at Poet's Cove Resort, overlooking a marina and the waters of Georgia Strait.


The day was beautiful, the couple divine, and the reception was a hoot. Next day we played the stupendous 27 holes of the Pender disc golf course, then farewelled Amy and Lee (Doctor Lee), bound for Halifax, and Lee's first residency.

Labour Day long weekend approaches. Our plans are for another island trip, across to Cortes for camping.

Sasquatch

The last weekend in May is Memorial Day weekend in the USA. We chose to honour America's fallen by journeying to Sasquatch Music Festival in the state of Washington. Four departed Vancouver Island: Sarah, myself, and our two friends Quinton and Simeon. We drove down in Simeon's van, leaving Friday evening, catching the last ferry off the island and hitting the Canada-US border around 1.00am. Simeon drove through the night while we slept, dozed, talked and stimulated our driver. We crossed the Columbia River soon after dawn and arrived at our destination, the Gorge Amphitheatre, situated in a natural half bowl above the river. We pitched camp, met our neighbours, drank tasty American microbrews - Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and Moose Drool Brown Ale, amongst others - and made our way into the festival.


The midday sun shone down as we climbed over the hill and surveyed the amphitheatre. The venue was beautiful, the carved walls of the gorge and the flowing Columbia River back-dropping the enormous stage at the bottom of the amphitheatre. Fleet Foxes, the opening act on the main Sasquatch stage, were partway through their set. Their melodious vocal harmonies filled the amphitheatre. We found a space on the grassy slope and relaxed in the sun. Dengue Fever were next up, a band blending Cambodian pop and psychedelic Californian surf rock. The lead singer, Chhom Nimol, is Cambodian and sings predominantly in Khmer. The music is cool but each song tends to sound the same, especially when the lyrics are indecipherable.

We decided to explore the other stages. Playing at the second stage - Wookie - were Dead Confederate, rockers from Athens, Georgia (the home town of R.E.M.). They rocked hard, and impressively. Beirut called me back to the amphitheatre. They feature otherwordly orchestration, with brass instruments, violins, an accordion and an ukelele and influences ranging from the Balkans to France to Central America. More cruising led us to the third stage, the Yeti stage, where we found a skinny 15 year old boy named Vince Mira singing Johnny Cash covers and his own originals with an amazing voice deep as the Mariana Trench. I kid you not. His balls dropped when he was three and he's never looked back. We bounced around the stages, catching Canadian acts Destroyer and The New Pornographers, and finding a couple of Vancouver friends. A highlight of the festival was catching Crudo at the Wookie stage.

The majority of the acts at Sasquatch were North American indie rock bands. Crudo were something else: Mike Patton, formerly of Faith No More, with Dan The Automator, known for his work with Gorillaz, and a collective of music makers. They played funky fun hip hop. Best of all was their keyboard player, Butterscotch, who laid down the sweetest beat boxing. She kicked The Automator's arse. Back on the Sasquatch stage was M.I.A. Her energy had the entire amphitheatre standing and bouncing. We hooked up with another handful of friends from Vancouver dancing on the slope.

On my festival hitlist was The National. Their bus had broken down and they had been relegated from the Sasquatch stage to the closing slot on the Yeti stage. This smaller more intimate space suited their sound. They played tight and hard, the violinist dropping his bow during the encore and playing his instrument like a guitar. Their set was a stand out. Sarah and I returned to the amphitheatre as Modest Mouse broke into "Float On". We caught the last half of their set. They play with two drummers on stage. I love percussion. Finally, as the rain began to fall, and then to fall sideways (Stephen Malkmus made a reference to crooked rain the following night), R.E.M. came on. Michael Stipe immediately slipped over on the slick stage. He proceeded to remove his shoes and socks, and the band went on to play a strong vibrant set. Stipe bantered with the crowd, made some political statements. Almost surreal to see and hear a band that's been kicking about as long as I've been alive, playing songs that have slipped into the cultural consciousness.


Sunday opened with 65daysofstatic. They played hard and fast instrumental (math) rock, variously described as progressive, post-industrial, post-punk, post-post...with a drummer who looked like he was breaking himself in half with each hit. 65daysofstatic, from Sheffield, England, were opening for the Cure on their US tour. More hip hop hit us courtesy of Blue Scholars, an MC-DJ duo from Seattle. I left their show and checked out the action at Yeti, and then caught two bands at Wookie stage, The Heavenly States from Oakland, California, and White Rabbits of Brooklyn. Both bands were unknown to me, and both impressed with distinctive sounds. White Rabbits had three percussionists on stage. Two bands to watch. Back at the Sasquatch stage I saw a little of Cold War Kids, nothing that moved me, and Tegan and Sara, Canada's favourite sisters. Next up were a band that took me back to the late summer days of 1996. I got to hear The Presidents of the United States of America sing "Peaches come from a can. They were put there by a man, in a factory downtown." They played an energetic set, lifting the crowd in the late afternoon.

Franti and Spearhead followed up, raising the energy level further and the crowd to their feet. They play mostly uncomplicated music with feeling and reggae grooves. Death Cab For Cutie had a hard time following those two acts, their sound failing to fill the amphitheatre. I went to the Wookie stage to see The Jicks. They were led by Stephen Malkmus, former frontman of Pavement, and featured Janet Weiss, of Sleater-Kinney, behind the drums. They jammed, producing long and loud rock songs with Malkmus playing around with chord progressions. Last act of the night was The Cure, definitely a band older than me. They played a long set, two and a half hours, with the last half dozen songs all old school singles. They didn't talk to the crowd at all, busting from one song to the next.


Monday, Memorial Day, and my pick of the weekend. We were woken early by a lone tent rolling through the field like a tumbleweed, coming to rest against our tent. Quinton took it away only for it to return like a friendly ownerless dog. Quinton went in early to score us a spot on the rocks above the mosh pit. We followed soon after as I was keen to see the band playing at midday, Yeasayer. I caught the last few songs of their set, including "2080" and "Sunrise". Wicked songs. They describe their music as "Middle Eastern-psych-snap-gospel". We cruised to Wookie to see Thao with The Get Down Stay Down, driven purely by the band's name. They were infectious, their music making people move. Back at Sasquatch, The Hives were rocking everyone's socks off. Dressed in matching black suits, these Swedes sweated in the sun while their narcissistic front man climbed amps, jumped around and strutted the stage, all the while talking up The Hives. Their set was sweet though, with three guitars assaulting the crowd.


Built To Spill had a hard time following The Hives. I left to catch a band called Siberian at Yeti and The Cave Singers at Wookie, more friendly "campfire folk" music. I returned to the Sasquatch stage for Rodrigo y Gabriela. This Mexican duo play classical guitar, but they don't just strum. They play fast, cite Slayer and Megadeth as influences, and cover songs by Led Zep and Metallica. Their guitar work was amazing. There were closeups on the big screens on either side of the stage of Gabriela's hands as she played; her strumming hand was a blur, simultaneously stroking strings and striking the guitar body percussively. Battles called me back to Wookie. They were sonic. I like to listen to indie rock; I like to dance to beats. Battles got my feet kicking. "Atlas" was powerful. Their drummer is a human metronome. I loved the super high cymbal. They have lots of fiddly dials and the voice sampling was whack.


I cruised back to the mainer for the final few songs of Flight of the Conchords. They were getting plenty of laughs from the crowd, though the setting seemed to dwarf their kind of show. I skipped The Mars Volta (who, Quinton tells me, were beyond loud) and went back to the Wookie stage for Jamie Lidell. He was the grooviest man at the festival, with a sweet backing band - love the saxophones - playing r&b and soul music with an electronic twist. He was taking his own vocal samples, layering, splicing and mashing them up to create dance beats. We all had a boogie.

We returned to the amphitheatre at the end of his set for the final show of the festival, the Flaming Lips performing their famous UFO Show. The band descended from a UFO floating above the stage, backdropped by a half-moon video screen. Wayne Coyne, the iconic frontman of the band, descended from the top of the UFO in a Zorb and proceeded to walk/stumble/crawl over the mosh crowd. Costumed performers - aliens and Teletubbie-like creatures - gathered at the sides of the stage and danced through the set. Naked girls made an appearance for the duration of one song. The crowd sang "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah" several dozen times, and "Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots Pt. 1" was a huge singalong, Wayne exhorting us all along for the love vibe and world peace. Confetti flew; balloons floated; coloured lights flared and flashed. Two hours passed and the band ascended in their flying object.


Disclaimer: Not all photos came from the lens of Sarah and Matt. Simeon took the first pic, and the www provided its share.

Two Weddings: A Photo Essay

We flew to New Zealand for two of these ceremonies. James and Sarah were first. A scorcher Sumner day, my blessings were as much for the beach as the wedded couple.


35 degrees Celsius. Champagne bubbles on the beach blew straight to our brains. Swims and paddles refreshed, and the chill nature of the day kept everyone relaxed. Beaming smiles were shared around.

Back on Maritanga Station, Sarah got friendly with the natives, and learned how to ride a motorbike. We dosed up on Speight's and farm style barbeques and chilled with the family.




















We slipped through Arthur's Pass to the West Coast, staying with Matt Bridge at Noah's Ark Backpackers in Greymouth, and spending a night in Franz Josef with Dunc.


We ambled about the glacier that evening. Next day, Dunc took us out across Lake Mapourika to the Okarito Kiwi Sanctuary.


With antenna and receiver in hand, Dunc the Conservator led us through the forest, searching for a kiwi. Distorted bleeps and blips, interpreted by the wise ear of Dunc, directed us to a burrow beneath the roots of a decomposing tree. There lay the kiwi, quivering before our inquisition.















The sneaky little rowi, out for a rare diurnal forage.




We left Dunc and travelled south to Fantail Falls, on the west side of Haast Pass. We ascended through beech forest to Brewster Hut, with views of Mt. Brewster, and its companion glacier, and Mt. Armstrong. Keas circled in the sky.

After skiing Lake Wanaka and drinking wine in the Gibbston Valley, Sarah returned to Vancouver Island. I stayed, hitting up Rippon with an old school crew of kids. We had a smashing day, with highlights including Kora and Connan & The Mockasins and Rippon's vino blanc.

And then Heather and Nick were married. We funked out to Koile's brand of Pacifika reggae, and lost it to one of the funniest series of one-liners ever composed by a best man. The bride was a blossom...

...the bride's friends had a ball...


...and the kids were gorgeous.

With the spin of turbines, and a whiff of jet fuel, the end came. The River City materialised on the horizon and I joined Sarah again on Vancouver Island.

Perseids in the Sky

An August hiatus, precipitated by the season, and explorations of our surrounds. Breathing time after a fast flowing month, and time to jot some notes of the summer.



Campbell River is 25 kilometres east of Strathcona Provincial Park, BC's oldest at 96 years of age. The park is a bit bigger than Te Urewera National Park, if that helps anyone. Just under 2,500 square kilometres for the others, about 8% of Vancouver Island. The highest peaks of the Vancouver Island Ranges lie within Strathcona. Our first foray into the park was with Paul, a Montreal student working the BC summer and Hersh, Sarah's PW ulti friend from way back, and my friend from when I met him at Jericho Beach second day in Canada.

We entered the park from the road to Gold River, hiking the trail running alongside Elk River. Our destination was Landslide Lake, at the base of Mount Colonel Foster, 4th highest of the range at 2,135m (and considered the "unrivalled alpine climbing mecca" of BC by Philip Stone, Island Alpine.) The mountain was named after some battler; Landslide earned its with the 7.2 Richter earthquake of 1946, when one of Colonel Foster's shoulders slid into the lake. The displaced water scythed a way down the upper Elk Valley, sluicing to bedrock near the lake. The walk in was easily paced. Paul, in one of many frequent unrobings, whipped 'em off to shower beneath ribbons of falling water.

We pitched camp by the river and progressed onwards and upwards. The final stretch took us over the exposed bedrock under reclamation, mosses, lichen, the odd dwarf tree toughing it out. Sarah pointed out White pine afflicted with blister rust. We hopped a few streams and found the lake in sight, and beyond, the imposing granite face of Colonel Foster. Taking in our surroundings, the four of us shared yerba mate sitting on a rock by the water. The scar of 1946 was plainly evident, with young trees encroaching on a broad section of cleared mountainside. We made our way around Landslide Lake to a smaller lake higher up, at the base of the mountain face. The lake was iced over, except at its exit point. Sarah and Paul were brave enough to dunk, but not slow coming out either.

~

We tripped into the interior of BC later in the summer, lured by music and friends, with a Subaru to name. The road looped through Mt Washington, for a wine festival that became a chalet blender drinks session, Victoria, where Sarah's sister Katy was moving into a new house, and across on the Queen of Oak Bay to Vancouver and mackerel Korean-style. We met Trish and Regan, another BC-NZ connection, in Squamish and drove fresh country for me, along the 99 through Whistler and Pemberton. We camped at a BC Hydro site (the province's power monopoly) and cooked up a feed while 20-30 kids had a party next door. It was probably the metal blasting out of car speakers that got them booted out. The old lady running the site steamed up in her old Ford pick-up, and she was pissed, ranting about their drinking and swearing. I nearly got chucked out for suggesting they were doing normal things for teens. She ended up calling the RCMP, while we sat back and watched bats flitting through the light emitted by her truck, hunting. After things cooled down, we slept under the stars, watching Perseids meteors trailing across the night sky.

Next day we drove to Salmon Arm, via a welcome swim in the Thompson River. The dry hills of the Okanagan region in summer recalled Central Otago. Red conifers signified pine beetle kill: the scale and spread of the infestation is awesome and awful. We drove straight to our destination, the Salmon Arm Roots & Blues festival. The diversity of music was impressive. Personal favourites were Andy Palacio and the Garifuna Collective, a mostly Belizean band singing to maintain their Garifuna culture. The Collective travelled with a 79 year old Garifuna legend, an aged dude in hat and suit who sang a song a day in strong voice. Other elements of the festival included Amazones, African women drummers from Guinea; Galant tu perds ton temps, five women singing Quebecois songs accompanied by a big, red-bearded percussionist who tapdanced and played spoons and a suitcase like a drum; Los de Abajo, a Mexico City ska-punk-salsa outfit full of beans; and the best fusion of them all, Ellika & Solo, a Swedish woman on fiddle and a Senegalese dreadhead playing the 21 strings of a kora. Michael Franti and Spearhead were the Friday night headliners, and they closed the night with energy. Franti's a consummate performer, a worker of the crowd. Spearhead were tight; the drummer was bursting with quick staccato lyrics, and the bass player plucked a mean blade. The last act we saw at the festival was Xavier Rudd, an Australian, who sat on stage surrounded by drums, a few didgeridoos, some electronic devices and other noisemakers, a guitar never far from his hands. I thought of Ganga Giri, though Xavier had a few more candle burners in his repertoire.

~

I've experienced more bonfires by the shores of lakes and ocean this summer than in living memory. S'mores have been sweet. The water - river, lake, ocean - has been refreshing, despite the inconsistent nature of the season. And yesterday, as September brings a Pacific high hanging over the Island, I cruised Quadra Island, biking roads and trails east to views of Cortes and Read Islands and the Coast Mountains backdrop. Dropping south west to the Cape Mudge lighthouse, I found a log by the water and sat back, watching the boats fishing in the channel, the tug and barge passing by, looking across the water at Campbell River. On the ferry back, a guy from Quebec and I got talking. A pair of out-of-towners, we agreed on the sweetness of BC.

River City Rip

Sarah and I live in a place called Campbell River, in British Columbia, Canada. A river of the same name flows through the northern reaches of Campbell River. The river is believed named for the ship surgeon of the HMS Plumper, cartographing in 1859. The community took the name with the construction of its post office in 1907. Tla'mataxw is the aboriginal name for the original Wiwekam settlement at the river's mouth; the First Nations band resides there still, under the designation Indian Reserve #11.

Campbell River, our first fixed location since Garak-Dong, Seoul, is a city. But Campbell River isn't a Seoul, for which I'm glad. A city in name, but by feel a town; in British Columbia, a community can be incorporated as a city if its population exceeds 5,000. Despite its city status, the town of Campbell River, population 30,000 or thereabouts, attracts those looking for a slower life. Retirees from Alberta, so I hear, and citizens of the US and BC Lower Mainlanders also. These outsiders are fuelling a transformation in the River City, a gradual shift from industry town to something less single-minded, more broadly cultural, artistic and active. A creeping transformation making its way up Vancouver Island - transmitted from Vancouver and Victoria, a dash of West Coast culture coupling with healthy doses of Island mentality - and flowing through the east coast urban centres. Campbell River is within the tidal zone of this wave, not yet subsumed.

The River City is a logging town first. Trucks and pick-ups dominate the roads; highway logging trucks, loaded with fresh cut forest behemoths or smaller pulp grade logs, plough through town. Tugs towing timber rafts or ships carrying logs ply the Discovery Passage, the channel between Quadra Island and Campbell River, heading south. When the wind blows from the north the captivating scent of the pulp mill up the coast wafts over the town. Other extractive industries are prominent. Mining - zinc, copper, lead, gold, silver, coal - plays a role in the region, as does commercial fishing. Campbell River serves as the operations base for several salmon farm companies, and sport fishing attracts the tourists. Even as fewer salmon run the rivers of BC, not least due to the operations of those fish farms, Campbell River trumpets the slogan, "Salmon Capital of the World."

This kind of dichotomy is apparent throughout Campbell River. The beautiful surroundings of coastal British Columbia - the waters of the Strait of Georgia; the mountains of the mainland to our east and Vancouver Island's backbone to our west; the layers of forest covering this coast, the myriad tree species, the bountiful berry bushes, the ferns that recall New Zealand; the fauna of the land that do not, mammals unfarmed, undomesticated. And the ugliness of the town centre - strip malls and branded big box stores and glorious acres of asphalted parking. A place where I can find shiitake mushrooms, kimchi ramyeon, and sashimi prepared by knife wielding Japanese - as well as Samson's Janitorial World: no Delilah, no mop bucket roller-coaster rides (sorry kids), but bristled brooms and advice on septic tanks. Streets where I pick berries beside the footpath - huckleberries, salmonberries, thimbleberries, native trailing blackberries, with exotic blackberries coming on line later this summer - while heroin junkies float on by.

Today I took my bike out, pedalled for five or ten minutes through a buffeting wind and was surrounded by the trees of the Beaver Lodge forest lands - a combination of Douglas-fir, western redcedar, Sitka spruce, grand fir, big leaf maple and red alder. I rode trails edged by sword ferns for a couple of hours, encountering other bikers and people walking dogs. Later, I found a perch by the beaver pond for a breather. Dense forest surrounded the water. A mallard duck called greeting to a companion dropping in from the sky. Seven female mallards drifted to my end of the pond, and frolicked in the trickling rapids flowing past. One stood sentry on a rock, a leg tucked away, keeping half an eye on me. Above the wind whistled by, but within the forest all was calm. I breathed the air, clean and fresh. Seoul, this is not.