Canadia road trip (may 2001)

As I write this, approximately a year and a half has gone by since a particular chain of events following graduation that I write here lest our memories of the exact events as they transpired be muddled into no more than a vague recollection of suffering and woe.

For several years a desire for adventure had been growing in my heart. I wanted to go someplace wild and strange, someplace beautiful but hostile enough to repel casual vacationers, leaving only the brave or the foolhardy adventurers (The reader is free to determine for his or her own self, from the following account, unto which set we belong). I also had little money and no job, so it had to be accessible by car. The natural choice was Alaska.

My friends Matt and Nate, being without common sense, were easy to convince to join me. One day we mentioned our plan to our dear friend, the inimitable Laura, who, for reasons which to this day remain obscure (in all other matters she has shown remarkable wisdom, good judgement and clarity of thought), decided to come with us and volunteered the use of her parent's van, the legendary Borkmobile.

Preparations

I got a book on southeast Alaska, studied maps, and we considered our options. It turns out that Skagway is remarkably far from Newberg. I examined the map some more, and said, "Hey, what're those big islands in Canada, just south of the Alaska border? That's only two thirds the distance to Skagway." These islands were the Queen Charlottes, large and obscure. There is a provincial park in the northeast corner of the main island, and a few small towns. There did not appear to be very much to see or do there, and we would be there a little bit too early for most of the tourist stuff to be open. Perfect.

I made reservations for the four of us on the ferry (but not the van - we decided to leave it behind on the mainland to conserve our meager funds).

Food was provided by Matt. Throughout the schoolyear, Matt and I were the perfect symbiotic pair. He had food stamps, and I had a car. The monday of finals week (referred to as "dead day", as there were no finals schedules on monday), we all went to the midnight breakfast (always scheduled for 10:00) and then to Winco (huzzah for 24 hour grocery shopping). With the last of Matt's food stamps, we bought beans, fruit, ramen, cheese, crackers, cereal, dew, dried apples and apricots, orange drink flavoring, a sausage, tortillas, peanut butter, honey, yogurt, granola, and a large bag of flour (whose purpose shall become apparent later in this tale). These supplies were, of course, supplemented by various and sundry leftover foodstuffs from my kitchen (including the renowned "red", which enters into other tales).

Finals week and graduation are in themselves worthy of a lengthy narrative, which I am unlikely to ever write in a complete form, for it would be wearysome to read. I sufferred greatly, but not in such a way as to make a good story. However, some understanding of the events of that week are necessary to understand my state of mind prior to departure (or, in other words, why I was what Tolkien might describe as "fey and witless"). In summary, I was sick for most of the week with a nasty cold, I had to read a book I should have read earlier in the semester for one of my finals, move all my stuff out of our house to an apartment I was moving into, and I had various interpersonal conflicts in addition to the usual stress of finals and graduation. By Saturday, I was woefully short of sleep and physically, mentally, and emotionally drained, but I thought, here it is, graduation. This whole week will be worth it when I finally have my diploma. My turn came to go up on stage, shake hands with Dave, take my diploma, and sit back down. I opened the fancy black embroidered diploma holder thing (what do you call those, anyways?), and saw there, in gothic lettering:

James Snow
(Academic Hold)

I'd like to say that after this climax of misfortune, my life immediately became easier. But then, if it was so, this story would not be worth telling. (Whether it's worth reading is for you to decide.) This story is, in fact, somewhat unique in that it represents a brief intermission in a larger tale of continuous misfortune which lasted several months and includes:

• looking for a job
• not finding a job
• totalling my car
• finding a job serving pizza and beer

(By intermission, I don't mean a suspension of misfortune, rather a change of form.)

In the end, by aimlessly blundering through life, I somehow ended up in graduate school. How this happened remains a complete mystery to me. However, such mysteries are not to be answered by this story, which this digression is beginning to hinder. So, allow me to continue.

Sunday

Our plan was to depart on monday from my parent's place. I spent the afternoon at Fox (Matt, Nate, and I entertained ourselves by trying on clothing from a donation bin). Due to a last minute change of plans, Matt and Nate needed me to give them a ride to my parent's place in my already laden Mazda GLC. We fit Nate in the back by making him sit down, then packing stuff in around him so he couldn't more.

We made a stop on the way so Nate could fix someone's computer.

My dad cooked us up some steaks, and then I slept for a very long time (my first good nights sleep in quite a while, and my last for some time to come)..

Monday

Monday morning I got up and did some hasty preparations. The registrar's office was now open, so I was finally able to inquire as to my lack of college degree (which as far as I can tell was the result of a database error - after talking with them awhile, they graduated me according to an older set of requirements). As I was haggling with them, Laura drove up in her '85 Toyota minivan.

Transport

The Borkmobile (easily identifiable by the letters that Laura had industriously adhered to the window spelling "BORKMOBILE"), is an old grey minivan. The 4 cylinder engine is in the approximate middle of the vehicle, accessible by removing the driver's seat. The driver and front passenger form a sort of "crush zone" so the engine won't sustain damage in a wreck. The front wheels are also placed unusually far back, giving the van a tight turning radius, and making it somewhat difficult to control at freeway speeds. It was truly a glorious vehicle. Elijah himself would have cause to be envious, as his chariot of fire no doubt lacked a five speed manual transmission.

Provisions

We went to the barn to select camping gear. There we found backpacks, tarps, a tent, various rain gear, two coolers, pots and pans, a coleman stove, and an extra container of gasoline so we wouldn't get stuck in some frozen wasteland. Also into the van went sleeping bags, Matt's guitar Juanita, Matt's skateboard, a set of tools, a timing light, oil, and some duct tape in case the Borkmobile should require maintenance, some CDs, all of our personal belongings (socks, toothpaste, etc...), a few books, our food, maps, and a liberal supply of Mountain Dew.

Departure

As soon as we had everything packed, we piled in (the coolers blocked the door, so the back seat passengers had to climb through the left window like the Dukes of Hazard) and drove to Newberg, stopping to collect some things from my new apartment, my diploma from George Fox, and to buy a CD-tape player adapter. Oh, the ridiculous workarounds that result from a simple lack of a ten cent auxiliary connector on the stereo. Why don't car stereos ever have an easy way to plug in arbitrary components? It's a conspiracy. Supe has a CD-player that actually broadcasts a low power FM station, so you can play it through the car stereo by tuning to the right channel. It's amazing the solutions people come up with for problems that shouldn't exist.

The drive through Washington was mostly uneventful. We stopped at the beer factory in Olympia, but we were too late for the daily tour.

We stopped at a rest stop that night, and considered pitching our tent on the lawn, but eventually decided to keep going. We had to talk to a lady for awhile at the border crossing, and explain what the heck we were all doing. We didn't have to worry about all our fruit, since by this time we had discovered we'd left it behind in my apartment. The lady recommended some hotels and campgrounds we could stay at.

Later, we chuckled at the ridiculous notion of staying in a hotel. Navigating Vancouver presented some minor difficulty, but we managed to find our way through to the other side, and continued driving up the coast into the night. We eventually pulled off the road in front of a dark, looming shape that seemed too steep to be a mountain and too solid to be a cloud. After shuffling stuff around, I found a place to sleep on the cooler that didn't seem too uncomfortable, at least not for the first ten minutes.

Tuesday

After a night that seemed at least twice as long as the preceeding day, we crawled out of our grey cocoon and took in our surroundings. The looming shape in front of us was indeed a mountain of granite, with a sheer face on the west side, facing the sea. To our east was a spectacular waterfall, cascading down out of a range of mountains. It was as if we had gone to sleep and awoken in some different universe more beautiful than the one we had left behind*. This was fine with me, as my friends were with me and I had left behind several unresolved problems, not least of which was finding a job. This had been a growing source of anxiety in my mind for the last few months. Whatever else might be said of our adventures in the Great North, I am thankful that it drove all other concerns from my mind, and I thought not at all about what I would do when I got back.

Our initial examinations of this new alternate dimension known as "British Columbia" revealed that we had parked adjacent to Shannon Falls provincial park, of which the waterfall and mountain of granite were a part. We moved the van to the parking lot (nearly forgetting the coolers in the process, which we had temporarily set beside the van).

The air was cool and clear, and the mountain beckonned to us. Nate's sleeping bag beckonned him more, so Matt, Laura, and I left him behind in the van. There was a trail leading up the backside, which forked into three separate paths leading to separate viewpoints. The first was a broad, well maintained trail to the lowest viewpoint. We scoffed at that trail. We similarly disregarded the second trail to the second viewpoint, preferring the narrow way to the highest viewpoint that few find. It was discernable only by periodic markers affixed to trees, leading us through steep boulder-strewn ravines to the top. There, we could peer over the sheer edge at the ground hundreds of feet below us. At this point I was thirsty and wished I had brought more water (which the lunch of dry ramen didn't improve).

From our vantage point, we could see the highway, a small town just beyond where we stopped that night, the ocean, and land beyond. After a good rest, we descended back to the parking lot, re-packed the van (a task accomplished at least twice a day), and continued north.

* This didn't seem quite as ridiculous to me then as it might to you now. Matt, Laura, and Nate are all such wonderfully improbable people that, in their company, all things seem possible. If I didn't know them, I wouldn't believe that they could exist in a world like ours. But, if they are real, then certainly other things I might deem unlikely could happen, too.

Not all who wander are lost[1]

Our navigational plan was to follow the roads that were closest to a straight line in the direction we wished to go. Unfortunately, the map only gives us two-dimensional data. Had we known about the ups and downs, we might have preferred a flatter route regardless of euclidean distance. As it was, our chosen route led us on winding roads through the jagged snow covered coastal mountains of British Columbia.

Some time in the afternoon, a shadow of doubt fell upon us as to whether we were on the right road. There only seemed to be one main road on the map, but we hadn't seen any reasurring road signs telling us where we were or where we were going. After several hours, we came to a town. We followed the main road through town until, suddenly, the road was no more. In front of us was a post office. We stared at in astonishment and dismay. Why would a major highway abruptly become a post office? Maybe that sort of thing that happens all the time in this universe.

A casual passerby set us straight. We needed to backtrack for two hours to get back on the right road. We asked if there was another way. She said there was a gravel road through the mountains that went more or less in the direction we wanted to go. We asked if it would be any faster. She looked at us, then at the van, and shook her head.

Once we were back on the correct route, our path led northeast through a vast, beautiful, inhospitible mountain range, then North over the rolling hills of BC. A raging storm had come against us. At one point, Matt and Nate were discussing the weather with a convenience store cashier. "It's usually pretty dry here. Nothing like Prince Rupert. We call it Rinse Rupert!" The fairy terminal for our ride to the Charlottes was in Prince Rupert.

A further note regarding our provisions

At around this time, it became evident that there was no tent in our vehicle. We had apparently neglected to actually put it in the van, once we had found it in the barn. I also had left behind my spare socks.

George

We eventually grew weary of calling towns by their royal names. "Prince Rupert" and "Prince George" became Rupert and George. Rather than distinguish miles from kilometers, we began refering to both as "units", and disregarded the conversion error. Canadian dollars became "rupies", the official currency of Nepal and Zelda.

We passed through George some time in the night, and turned west towards Rupert. At some point, we stopped and slept. I "slept" in a sitting position in the driver's seat. Nate "slept" outside on the ground (the rain had let up for awhile). Matt and Laura found places to "sleep" amidst our belongings in the back.

Wednesday

When dawn finally came, we continued west through the mountains. At one point, there was some roadwork and we talked to the traffic control lady for awhile about local politics. She said there was always more road work before an election.

We came to Rupert in the Afternoon. Our ferry tickets were for the following morning. We stopped at the visitors center, withdrew some Canadian rupies from an ATM, and went to a hardware store to get an extra tarp, then decided we had enough tarps already. Someone told us "Sure, it rains a lot here, but it's nothing like the Charlottes." We found a convenience store that also operates a long term parking area where we could park the van.

That night, we stayed at a the one campground that was open (though it took us awhile to determine that it was). Our camping site resembled a small rock quarry, with a vertical stone wall on three sides. In the back behind the fire ring was a large puddle of water from the rain (did I mention it had started to rain again?)

After some difficult contrivance, we were able to suspend a tarp over the back of the van and the fire ring, and cooked ourself some dinner. The camp had hot showers:

We made extra room to sleep in the van by leaving some of our gear outside under the tarp.

Thursday

In the morning, we packed up and drove to the convenience store to find the parking lot lady. Once our van was locked inside a fenced lot, she drove us to the ferry.

After a long wait, we were able to board. The Queen of the North (or, as we called it, "of the North") is a massive 800 passenger ferry, temporarily replacing the 600 passenger ferry that usually runs the route. In all, there were maybe two dozen passengers that day.

Much later, Matt confessed that he pictured an open-air ferry where everyone parks their cars on a big deck, and the passengers huddle behind them to escape the rain. In actuality, the ferry was not unlike those cruise ships you see in movies and commercials, minus the on-board casino and dance parties. It was suggested that we hijack the boat and take it to Mexico (that being a frequently metioned alternative destination, as in "Why in the world didn't we just go to Mexico where its warm and dry?"). They'd never find us if we re-named it "Hombre of the South".

The ride was about six hours, plus some delay due to some sort of coast guard (or whatever the Canadian equivalent is) excercise. They played the movie Finding Forrester.

Outside the windows, we saw several islands go by. They looked like pure wilderness, no sign of human habitation. We wandered up and down the hallways and watched the ocean. After a few hours, we left the islands behind. In a few more, we could see a strip of land on the horizon. The sun was going down as it got closer. Our ferry followed the coastline south until we arrived at our destination, Skidegate (pronounced skid-a-git).

The Rock

We stepped off onto "the rock", as we soon learned the Charlottes were known to the locals. It was now nighttime, and we weren't quite sure what to do. We knew there was a shuttle bus the following morning that would take us to Naikoon provincial park, about 40 or 50 units to the North, but we weren't sure where to camp until then.

One girl suggested we go to the east edge of town and stick out our thumbs, and said "This is the Charlottes, Eh!"

Outside the terminal, we found a strange fellow who asked if we wanted any drugs. Laura: "I left my rolling papers at home." (Note to Laura: don't forward this to your mother without editing the preceding sentence.) After we explained our predicament, he said (parts of this conversation are permenantly etched into my long term memory): "Ya said ya wanted to tarp up. I'm Tillin' ya where to tarp up. You want ta go to the Graveyard. All the locals know where it is. Hop into my skiff and I'll take ya ta Charlotte. You can getchyer bearings. We'll all have a Beer. If you don't drink, that's okay, I'll have a beer."

We didn't think it would have been his first that evening. We declined that offer as well. Then he told us about how he was waiting for his girlfriend from Melbourne. Then he saw some kids doing something to his skiff, and ran off after them into the night, yelling "Wait! I'll be Nice!" in a non-reasurring tone of voice. Fortunately for their safety, the kids were prudent enough to have bicycles stashed nearby, which gave them a slight speed advantage over their enraged pursuer.

Next, we talked to a lady who had dropped her son off at the ferry (the "of the North" was going back to Rupert that night) but he didn't seem to want to hang out with her, so she asked us if we were going North. Amazed by our serendipitous good fortune, we said yes, and she offered us a ride halfway to Tlell. She said there was a good place to camp near her house. We piled into her truck, Laura and I in the cab and Matt and Nate in the back on top of a load of firewood.

On the way, she talked about forrestry, saying they shouldn't replant all one kind of tree when the islands originally had a good mixture of tree species, especially since the island probably wouldn't ever be logged again, for political reasons. When asked what she did, she explained that she was a sort of local artist, who built walls out of driftwood and concrete. She said she built her own house that way, and we should come see it in the morning.

She dropped us off at the camping spot. It was a clearing in the trees between the road and the ocean. We strung our tarp above us in case of rain, and laid another on the ground to sleep on, and then crawled into our sleeping bags and slumbered peacefully for a long time.

Friday

Before we got up, the same lady stopped by to see if we needed a ride up North (she was making at trip to Tlell, which was where we wanted to go). Alas, we weren't ready to leave, so that opportunity escaped us. We packed up our gear (which was quite heavy since we had a lot of rain gear (but probably not enough), a week's worth of food, and a few days worth of drinking water). Matt and Nate climbed a tree, then we all hoisted our packs and began walking to Tlell.

Between Skidegate and Tlell there is a long road along the eastern coastline of Graham Island (the Northernmost isle of the Charlottes). Aside from the aforementioned house of concrete and driftwood (which we, unfortunately, neglected to go see), there wasn't any sign of habitation between the two towns, which were both approximately two or three days walk away.

The beach was rocky, so we walked along the side of the road instead. Soon, we came to a spring beside the road with a small basin and a sign telling us of a local legend that all who drink from the spring shall some day return. The sign did not mention any local legend regarding giardea, so I took a drink. So far, neither fate has befallen me.

We walked in the forrest above the road for awhile, but were hindered by the underbrush and puddles of water. Also, we didn't want to miss the shuttle bus, if it should happen to drive by. Back on the road, we stuck out our thumbs to all passing cars. This seems to be an acceptable form of transportation on the islands.

In a short time, an old red van stopped and the driver offered us a ride. He was going to Port Clements, the next town beyond Tlell. The interior of the van was mostly bare metal, save for a wooden "beer holder" that he had made himself, and he displayed proudly to us as if we should be impressed. (Note to Laura: don't forward this to your mother without editing the preceding sentence.)

He dropped us off next to the camp ranger's office. We called Supe (my roommate) on the pay phone and told him to eat all the fruit we left behind in his refrigerator, then went inside and asked about the park. The lady there said the park wasn't open yet, but all that really meant to us is that they aren't collecting fees this early in the year. We asked if it would be foolhardy to hike to the other end of the park. She said we should bring a lot of water, and not linger in certain places where there isn't any place to go when the tide comes in. She said there was a minimal shelter just a few units past the shipwreck.

The Pesuta was an old wooden lumber ship that crashed in a storm in 1928. It was about three or four units up the coastline. We decided that we would try to find the shelter that day, and do short hikes from there rather than hike all the way to the other end (about fifty units).

We walked through the park and found the beach. Here, it was sandy and easier to walk on. Ahead, in the distance, we could see a dark spot that we presumed to be the Pesuta. The early afternoon sky was overcast.

The Beach

For as long as I remember, I've always liked walking on the beach. This, in fact, was what I had been looking forward to. People sit in their cubicles and dream of doing what we were doing. To walk on the shore of some remote island, where there are no alarm clocks, traffic lights, or telemarketers. Of course, most people dream of being stranded on a tropical island, but I guess you can't have everything. There is a sort of wholesome irresponsibility that stems from having no particular purpose but to feel the sand beneath our feet and the cool breeze in our hair.

We were on the leeward side of the island, so there were no big waves. There was, however, a remarkable twice-daily tide change of about twenty feet. When the tide was out, it was as if the ocean had been emptied.

The Pesuta grew gradually larger, then seemed to stay the same size for a long time. (Anyone who has ever hiked any significant distance towards a small landmark on the horizon should be familiar with this phenomenon.) I made a few jokes about it being towed up the beach by a bulldozer we couldn't see. Have you ever noticed how frame packs are really cleverly designed torture devices? Soon, my shoulders and back ached from the weight, and my sense of enthusiasm began to wane. I thought, if we could only get to the shipwreck, maybe we can camp there. I must have been out of my mind to consider hiking all the way to the far north end.

Finally, the Pesuta began growing noticably larger until we saw that it was only a short distance away. Looming behind us, invisible, was the cruel hand of fate, which had been following us for some time unobserved. Behold its infinite subtleties.

There was a river between us and the shipwreck.

It was not a wide river. Not more than a hundred feet. It was, however, very swift and at least a few feet deep (we couldn't see any farther down than that through the brown water). Crossing would have been perilous at best, and we would have been unlikely to keep our gear (and certainly not ourselves) dry. We looked to the left. The river did not come straight out of the woods. We had, in fact, been walking parallel to its course for quite some time. It had been hidden from our sight by the contours of the ground.

It was clear that we would have to backtrack until we found a bridge (certainly there must be a bridge somewhere near here...hikers go this way all the time, right?). The only river on our map was the Tlell, which appeared to drain into the ocean back at the campground. As we began backtracking to the south, I remembered another map that had an enlarged view of the campground. After rummaging through my pack, I found it and was dismayed. For it clearly showed the Tlell river passing through the town of Tlell and around the campground, then turning sharply North for several units, then crossing the beach just before the shipwreck. There would be no bridge between here and where we started. Hikers departing South Naikoon Provincial Park to go North up the beach ought to first cross the Tlell river back in town, so they are on the proper side.

At this news, Matt decided to attempt the crossing. Maybe it's only two feet deep all the way across? That wouldn't be too hard. He grabbed the end of the longest rope we had (which would not reach the other side) and waded in a little ways. He soon determined that it was, in fact, swifter and deeper than it appeared. He waded back, and we once again hoisted our packs for the long march of shame and defeat back to where we started.

Observe the ingenuity of the unseen forces arrayed against us. It began to hail.

Soon, this hail turned to a steady cold rain, blowing in our faces.

A brief note regarding proper rain gear

In this sort of weather, it's important to dress in layers. Particularly, there should be at least one insulating layer (perhaps of wool) and one waterproof layer. Cotton serves neither of these purposes.

My outer layers consisted of a cotton sweatshirt, a wool sweater, and a large green raincoat. Over my jeans, I wore a pair of snow pants. On my head was a wool hat from Bavaria, that I wear whenever I'm on any sort of adventure or I'm not afraid to look ridiculous. It took some effort to prevent it from blowing off my head. My worn hiking boots were mostly waterproof, but would eventually leak when subject to perpetually damp environments like the the bottom of the ocean or the Charlottes. I also wore a pair of wool socks that Laura loaned me as an act of kindness, for which I am deeply in her debt. Unfortunately, I had not the foresight to tuck the hood of my cotton sweatshirt under my jacket until I could feel an icy chill seeping down my back. At this point, the hood was so wet that I didn't want it under my jacket, so the problem became progressively worse.

Matt had a wool coat from Nepal and a black ski jacket he had bought for $5. Nate also had a rain coat. I don't think their pants were waterproof. That would have explained their lack of enthusiasm as the afternoon wore on.

Laura, dressed in bright pastels, stood in sharp contrast to her surroundings. Her raincoat was bright yellow and her waterproof pants were bright blue. Her face had a despondent look that began to fade about three or four days later.

A few brief notes about suffering

Suffering seems to be such an integral part of human existence in general and this trip in particular, that it seems proper to expend a few paragraphs on the subject (in which I regard myself as something of an authority).

First off, like love, there are multiple types of suffering which we refer to by the same name, but they are fundamentally different. I believe the broadest distinction can be made between what I will henceforth call "benign suffering" and "destructive suffering". Benign suffering is the sort that they tell us "builds character". Things like scraping your knuckles trying to force a stuck bolt, or banging your shins against a piece of furniture in the dark, that you laugh about later (but usually not right then). Destructive suffering is a different sort that serves only to discourage.

The boundary between benign suffering and destructive suffering seems to vary greatly from person to person. It is also dynamic - benign suffering seems to raise one's threshold, whereas destructive suffering seems to lower it. Also, the boundary seems much higher when in the company of people with a good sense of humor. Solomon ought to have said:

Good company can form a sort of invincibility to most minor forms of suffering. Laughter, though it does not make suffering any less pleasant, at least gives it a noble purpose. Our misfortunes, by contributing to the mirth of others, can increase our own.

The fact is, if we never had anything bad happen to us, life would be abysmally dull. Sometimes, when people ask me if I've had a good week, I am dismayed to find that I can't remember a single thing, good or bad, that has happened to me that would make a good story. I think one of the most subtle forms of destructive suffering is to lead a boring life. It is strange that when we insulate ourselves from all forms of suffering, we become ensnared in what we were most trying to avoid.

A good life ought to make a good story. All good stories must, by necessity, have their low points, when it seems all but the faintest hope of a happy ending is lost. Just as important, there ought to be a happy ending, when happiness is restored. A greater joy, perhaps, than what was before, for it is known by its contrast with sorrow. The important thing is to not lose sight of this happy ending. Consider the words of Job, who suffered as much as anyone I can think of:

The faces of my fellow travellers seemed to suggest not that their redeemer lives, but rather that our trip had just crossed the line from benign suffering to destructive suffering. If I was to guess what Laura was thinking (this, I know, is an uncertain endeaver, and likely to miss the mark by a wide margin), I would have guessed it went something like this: "Why am I here? It didn't just happen accidentally. We travelled thousands of miles out of our way so we could stand in the rain in some arctic wasteland. I wonder if its too late to fly to Mexico." I myself began to have my doubts about the whole adventure, as I tried to ignore the growing pain in my back and legs from the weight of my pack, and the growing dampness of my sweatshirt, and the wind and rain blowing in my face. It seemed somehow anticlimatic to come so far to be utterly defeated by something so mundane as a river.

When we reached the campground, we found a tent site (consisting of a wooden platform in a clearing) and laid down a tarp. Over this, we strung a second tarp to keep the rain (which had stopped) out, in the not unlikely event that it should happen to start again. There was a covered shelter not far from our tent site with a woodstove. Laura made a fire, and we rummaged around to see what food we had. We had left most of our cookable food in the van, but Laura had some tuna fish and we had some tortillas stowed away somewhere. Laura added cheese (I think) and some other stuff (I can't remember now exactly what) and cooked them directly on the iron top of the stove (having also left our cooking gear in the van so we wouldn't have to carry it around). Why does camp food always taste better than normal food?

After dinner, we crawled under our tarp and slumbered soundly.

Saturday

It rained all night. In the morning, we slept late. Slowly, we all gained consciousness but remained in our sleeping bags, fearing what new calamities this new day might bring if we should set foot outside the safety of our shelter. We dined on dried fruit and granolla mixed with yogurt. Nate began performing the audio portions of Donkey Kong while Matt made animal noises. Eventually, we realized that we couldn't just lie in our sleeping bags until the ferry came on Thursday. The rain had stopped and we even saw blue sky, but we were suspicious of the skys, fearing some new deception.

By late morning, we had gotten up enough gumption to try the trail we ought to have taken the day before . This time, we left our gear behind in the campground (this made me uneasy at first, until I realized we didn't have anything worth stealing).

The main highway crosses the Tlell river by way of a steel bridge. On the far side, there was a trail leading off into the woods, parallel to the river's course. We followed this for several hours. At one point, the trail went right by an abandoned, half constructed house, and then deposited us on a stony shore next to the river. On the other side was the beach we had traversed the day before. We took a break for a few minutes while Matt and Nate tried to throw rocks across the river, eventually succeeding.

After about a unit or two, the shore grew wider and the river turned to meet the ocean. We looked across at the spot where we had turned back the day before. Then we went on.

As we walked down the beach, we heard the sound of gasoline engines behind us. Three trucks came racing down the beach at freeway speeds, bouncing over the uneven drifts of sand, their suspensions exhibiting their full range of motion. They passed us and continued down the beach until disappearing from view.

In front of us was the elusive Pesuta. Only a small part remained, but the construction was amazing. No one builds ships like that anymore. There was some steel but the hull and main structures of the ship were wood. Massive beams everywhere (it would be hard to find trees that big now), perfectly joined. It was not so much a cargo ship as a sculpture, though only a skeleton of what it had once been.

The trucks (having turned around) came and went, bouncing over the dunes, just as before.

We walked back to camp the same way we came. Matt had some lower abdominal discomfort, but otherwise the return was uneventful. We had dinner and hit the hay.

Sunday

We decided to head back to Skidegate and see if we could change our ferry reservations to Monday (the ferry came to the rock twice a week). As Nate succinctly put it: "I'm all funned out." In the early afternoon, we packed up our gear and began walking south towards town. The rain came back and the winds blew. We passed a bed and breakfast that we had been told was nice, and entertained the thought of staying there for a night, but decided against it after inquiring about the price.

Someone gave us a ride to the far end of town. There was a small store with a coffee shop there, so we went in, depositing our packs next to a friendly looking dog. Matt ordered a round of hot chocolates, which came in enormous bowl-sized cups, topped with mounds of whipped cream and chocolate syrup. We sat there for a long time, enjoying the novelty of a roof and walls to separate us from the inclement weather.

Back outside, I was pleased to see the dog hadn't torn apart our packs in search of our meager rations of food. With our packs on our backs, we continued walking out of town. It was perhaps a three day hike to Skidegate. The rain had not abated and the wind only grew stronger. For the first time, we could see significant waves. We extended our thumbs to every passing vehicle. Walking forward felt like going up a flight of stairs. I had to hold my hat down to prevent it from blowing away. Laura trudged on, staring blankly in front of her as if her soul had left her body and gone to Mexico on vacation.

Some time later, we took a break and Matt departed into the woods to relieve himself of unnecessary burdens. Meanwhile, a woman in a small car stopped abruptly and asked if we needed a ride. We did indeed, however she didn't have room for the four of us. Suddenly, a second car stopped (mostly to avoid hitting the first). This second driver percieved our plight, and asked if we needed rides.

Nate got in the second driver's car. Matt emerged from the forest, and the rest of us piled into the first car. Our plan was to regroup at the hostel in Charlotte.

The lady driving the car asked if we were tree planters. I think she was surprised to hear that we had come to the Charlottes this early in the year for fun.

Skidegate forms the eastern end of Charlotte, the largest town on the island. The hostel was a few miles to the west of the ferry terminal where we arrived. The lady left us off by the hostel, which was adjacent to a hotel under the same ownership. There were only a few people staying in the hostel, but they weren't presently there. The rates were within our budget, so we checked in. Nate had not yet arrived.

The hostel was like a small house, with a common living room, kitchen, and bathroom. In the back were several bedrooms with bunkbeds.

After a few hours, Laura grew concerned about Nate's tardiness. Matt said "I'm sure he's having an interesting adventure." Eventually, Nate did arrive. His "adventure" consisted of helping the second driver fix his boat. We ate a Man's Helping of ramen, watched part of "Jack" on the TV (there were a few videos lying on a shelf), and hit the hay.

Monday

I called the ferry terminal and got our thursday reservations changed to today. The ferry was to leave in the early afternoon. In the morning, we wandered among the stores. I bought a can of "Mountain Mist" at the grocery store (the closest thing to Mountain Dew I could find). We checked out of the hostel and grabbed our gear for the (relatively short) hike to the terminal. The sky was partly cloudy, but no longer threatening. Part way there, we rested by a wall constructed of driftwood and concrete, which we supposed was built by the generous lady who gave us a ride the first night on the rock.

We arrived at the ferry terminal a few hours early, so we left our packs there and walked up the road to a local museum. There was a sign on the door saying it was closed. The owner had gone to a funeral. Outside were totem poles in various stages of construction. We sat on the lawn in the sunshine for awhile and then walked back to the terminal.

Once again, we boarded the Queen of the North for the return trip. We went past a couple of cruise ships on the return voyage. With the ship pitching up and down, we entertained ourselves by running as fast as we could through the hallways. The movie this time was Men of Honor. We ate some dry packets of ramen, which were our last remaining food.

Late at night the "of the North" arrived in Rinse Rupert. The lady from the parking lot / convenience store was there. (It's a good thing, too, otherwise we would have had to loiter in the streets and beg for food until morning.) Our reunion with the esteemed Borkmobile and our less portable worldly possessions was a joyous occasion, which we celebrated with a round of Mountain Dews while listening to what I refer to as the MIDI file song. It is the last track of the first George Fox campus album, and consists of approximately 15 minutes of indescribable techno. I can imagine them now, asking each other, "We have almost enough music to release a campus album, but how can we fill the rest of the space on the CD?" Depending on your state of mind, it can either lift your spirits or make you hurl your stereo out the window.

While listening to that and other classics (including Minority and Teenage Dirtbag), we drove out of Rupert on our reverse voyage. We watched a few celebrity jeopardys and simpsons episodes on Nate's laptop for awhile, then took turns sleeping and driving through the night.

Tuesday

I don't remember much about the drive back, aside from reading A Horse and his Boy. Some time around noon we stopped at a campground next to a lake and cooked ourself lunch with the coleman camp stove. A lady came and told us it was a private campground and we had to pay to picnic there, so we paid her off. After that, we felt we couldn't leave until we'd extracted our money's worth of enjoyment, so we jumped on the trampoline. I tried to do a complete flip in the air and land on my feet, but remained unsuccessful after many attempts.

Back on the road, we drove for a few hours and came to another campground we had seen about a week earlier. It seemed like a nice place, and I was afraid we might drive all the way back without stopping to enjoy ourselves if I didn't intervene in some way, so I suggested we stop there. Laura, who was driving at the time, gave me a look that seemed to say "Haven't we suffered enough already?", but complied and pulled into Marble Creek campground.

The sun, oddly enough, was shining. The campground was on the south side of the highway. Further south was a small lake and some wooded mountains. North of the highway was a baren mountain of crumbly rocks.

There were still a few hours of daylight, so I convinced Matt and Nate to go with me on a hike up the mountain. Laura opted to stay behind.

Laboring up the mountain, it seemed to be not unlike a great gravel pile, at its maximum slope before it begins to slide. Every step dislodged an avalanche of small stones. This was unfortunate for me, as Nate and Matt could climb faster than I, and I occasionally had to dodge a medium sized rock tumbling in my direction.

About two thirds of the way up, I lost my water bottle. Shortly thereafter, we came to a formidable obstacle. The mountain had not entirely crumbled into oblivion. In front of us were sheer cliffs of rock. In some places, there were ledges and canyons that may lead upward, but it was unclear whether there was an actual path to the top.

Nate and Matt, being, as I have said, without common sense, split up. Nate went right, and Matt went left. I followed vaguely in Matt's direction, but soon lost sight of him. A while later, I heard a loud crashing sound to my right, as if half the mountain had given way. I yelled a few times, but didn't hear anything. (Nate later said that he had done the same. We weren't far apart, but the landscape was such that we were shielded from each other's shouts.) A few minutes later, I caught up with Matt. Together, we found a route up amongst the cliffs and, to my relief, we found Nate waiting for us in one piece. A winding coarse through scraggly trees and over boulders led us to a good viewpoint on top, where we could look down on the tiny campground and across at a thickly forrested mountain range that seemed to go on for some distance.

The fading daylight began to be a concern, so we began climbing back down. After backtracking several times and wondering how cold the mountain would be at night, we rediscovered our reverse path.

Once we were out of the cliffs, we could more or less ride small avalanches of gravel down the hillside. Unfortunately, I was somewhat slowed by the periodic removal of pieces of gravel lodged between my feet and my sandals. By the time we reached the bottom, it had become quite dark, and I was glad to be back at camp.

Laura's mood had brightened considerably during (or because of) our absence. It came as a relief to me that her steadfast spirit was not permentantly crushed by inclement weather and our poor hygeine. I was more relieved, however, to see that she had industriously cooked us dinner. (A side note regarding Laura's cooking abilities: she was once proposed to by six different people as a direct result of cooking a single cheesecake.)

A few brief notes regarding combustion

After hastily devouring the praiseworthy meal, we sat around the campfire wondering what to do next. Matt remembered the large bag of flour we had perchased two weeks ago with his Oregon Trail card, that we'd been hauling around in the van for several thousand miles. Matt demonstrated the purpose for which it had originally been obtained by throwing a large handful directly into the campfire, producing a flash of bright orange flame.

After repeating this a couple of times, it began to lose its novelty. Therefore, we tried a new trick - redirecting the flame. The fire would go in the general direction the flour was thrown. By carefully timing several handfulls, the fire could be coerced surprising distances from its original source.

I suppose it was only a matter of time until our main objective turned to creating the biggest possible fireball. Nate pulled out his laptop and set up the webcam. Afterwards, when we looked at the footage, this is what we saw:

The clip began with a black screen with a small flickering orange light in the middle (our campfire). Nothing else is visibly discernable. Suddenly, a clear voice proclaims, "This is gonna be a BIG one!" followed by maniacal laughter.

The screen suddenly turns completely white. Several frames later, a pillar of flame approximately eight or ten feed high (it's hard to say, since it greatly exceeds the field of view) is clearly visible for a fraction of a second before the image fades back to black.

After a quick eyebrow check, we did this several more times. The best method seemed to be for the four of us to throw eight handfulls of flour into the fire simultaneously.

video files (divx avi): 1(399k) 2(474k)

Wednesday

The next day we climbed a waterfall opposite the lake, then sat around for most of the day. Matt went off into the woods to re-acquainted himself with Juanita, his guitar. That night, I cooked up a stew of beans, rice, and various dry soup mixes. Some of it was burnt to the bottom of the pot, so I filled it up with water hoping it would come off easier the next day.

Thursday

When I woke up, Matt and Nate were already re-heating the nasty water in the pot to make hot chocolate. Breakfast consisted of handfulls of Fruit Loops.

Marble Canyon seemed such a wonderful place that I felt I could easily have stayed there all summer with my friends if I had enough food and money for camp fees. However, I don't think my friends, having more reason than I to look forward to our return, shared my view. Moreover, our store of food was rapidly dwindling. We had no more fruits or vegetables. We did have rice, beans, Fruit Loops, crackers, cheese, sausage, and red, but it was clear that we couldn't live on those things indefinitely. Therefore, we continued our return journey.

We got back to my parent's house late that night. They cooked us a big speghetti dinner.

Friday

In the morning, we unpacked the van. I found my socks in a big pile where I had left them. Everyone went there separate ways, and I was once again faced with the recurring question I had managed to avoid for so long: "Just what are you going to do with the rest of your life?"

Final remarks

In retrospect, I realize that, given my previous definition of a good story, this is something of a degenerate case because it lacks the all-important happy ending (I guess having survived is, in itself, a sort of happy ending, but if you've read this far, I imagine you may have been hoping for something more, and I hope you're not disappointed). Sometimes, life is like that. However, by constructing this web page, I hope to put our suffering and woe to a noble purpose by imparting mirth and wisdom freely to all who come upon this dusty corner of the Internet. If it succeeds in that, it would be the happiest ending that could ever be hoped for.

A year later, Matt, Nate, and I, along with our friend Tim, embarked on another journey fully documented here.

Note: Laura still speaks to us all, and doesn't seem to have taken any long term psychological damage (in case you were worried about that). She even claimed that, if she had the same week and a half to live over, she would do it again.

Update 23 Mar 2006: The Queen of the North sinks. Quoth Nate:

It hurts me deeply to announce that our mother ship -- the one that carried us to a land of suffering -- The Queen of the North, sunk. Perhaps it was the will of the gods that no man make the same journey we attempted some years ago. Or even more importantly, it is probably a good thing that the residents of the Charlottes be confined to that place and not infect the rest of the world.

It seems the ferry wandered from its course and struck a rock. It appears that everyone got off safely.