 
4-8-2015

Up the Lake

Wayne J. Lutz

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 Wayne J. Lutz

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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* * * * *

To John...

my mentor for the wilderness,

who allowed me to discover the wonders of Powell River

* * * * *

The stories are true, and the characters are real.

Some details are adjusted to protect the guilty.

All of the mistakes rest solidly with the author.

* * * * *

About this edition:

Grammatical errors corrected

Books by Wayne J. Lutz

Coastal British Columbia Stories

Up the Lake

Up the Main

Up the Winter Trail

Up the Strait

Up the Airway

Farther Up the Lake

Farther Up the Main

Farther Up the Strait

Cabin Number 5

Off the Grid

Up the inlet

Beyond the Main

Science Fiction Titles

Echo of a Distant Planet

Inbound to Earth

When Galaxies Collide

Anomaly at Fortune Lake

Across the Galactic Sea

U.S. Pacific Northwest Series

Flying the Pacific Northwest

Paddling the Pacific Northwest
Contents

1 – Mount Mahony

2 – Boats and Planes

3 – Slash

4 – Up the Lake from the Shinglemill

5 – City-Folk

6 – Skookum

7 – Chippewa Bay Cabin Buster

8 – Critters

9 – Elephant Butt and Spitter

10 – Up the Main from Tin Hat

11 – Night Rescue

Center-of-Book Photos

12 – Theodosia

13 – Halcyon Days

14 – Off the Grid in Mr. Bathtub

15 – Never Saddle a Dead Horse

16 – Prideaux Haven

17 – Royal Canadian Mounted Police

18 – On the Hook

19 – Speed Bump

20 – Prawn Fisherman

21 – Talking to Myself

22 – Save That Nail

Epilogue – On the Phone

About the Author

Other Books by this Author
Chapter 1

Mount Mahony

December winds blow strong and gusty from the southeast, a favourite direction for the creation of shipwrecks on the chuck, and a time to hunker down and avoid temptations involving oceans or lakes. This will be a rare night, a sleep-over in town. I'm tempted to try the lower portion of the lake to see if it's safe, but that would provide little indication of conditions farther north. Pilots call these temptations sucker holes. You see a break in the clouds and go for it, only to find the path blocked by severe weather, and then the path behind you slams shut.

The condo's balcony door is cracked open – the living room is warm. The clanging of sailboat mast tackle broadcasts the wind velocity from the nearby harbour. Metallic quavering of the masts heralds strong winds tonight, and there's no relief in sight. A wound up low-pressure system over the Queen Charlottes is deepening rather than moving. It draws air northward through the Strait of Georgia, directly over Powell River. Texada Island acts as a temporary buffer for the blast, only to refocus the winds through the Malaspina Strait, right outside my window. It's too dark to see the sailboats in the harbour, but I hear their masts' tinny clatter.

Sheets of rain pound against the balcony door, with a few drops forcing their way in through the narrow screen opening. The cold air swirls near the door, blowing extra energy into the roaring gas fireplace. This rain and wind is supposed to last for days, but forecasts this time of year are suspect. No one puts any faith in the weatherman's prognosis for two more days of rain, followed by sunny breaks, followed by more rain and wind. We take whatever comes our way, and life is geared to go on for months like this without major interruption. The Sunshine Coast (Rain Coast) is weather resistant rather than weather repellent. Everyone accepts the rain and wind, and just digs in.

Winter, with its short rainy days, is so different from the summer's nearly continuous sunshine and twilight (punctuated by downpours). The term "snowbird" is appropriate here, although snow only occasional comes to this moderate coastal marine climate. It's rain rather than snow that dominates the winter, but the nearly constant clouds and darkness are what drive the locals to the south. These "rainbirds" travel widely during all months of the year, but the winter is when they go south to find the sun. Part of this extensive travel is induced by the island-like nature of Powell River. On roads, you can't drive more than 25 miles in any direction before you hit the end of the pavement. And there's really only one main road. Island fever, coupled with the gray overcast of the rainy season, generates locals who are automatically geared up to leave in the winter.

Children growing up here gravitate into two categories: those who are planning their permanent escape as soon as they are able; and those who want to stay forever. They either hate it or they love it. There are few who fall in between.

In the winter, the rainbirds' focus for travel is Arizona and California. One of my favourite winter flight destinations from my home near Los Angeles is Phoenix. The flight takes me over stark desert terrain, and there's a particular winter spot that attracts hundreds of travel trailers in the middle of nowhere, grouped in wide circles like wagon trains. I gaze down on this bleak environment from my Piper Arrow, imagining that these are locals from Powell River, living their winter dream – day after day of Arizona sunshine.

I'm stunned to learn that a popular garden-spot of retirement for Powell River residents is Hemet, California. This desert community, registering consistent summer temperatures of over 35 degrees C for weeks on end, isn't exactly my idea of paradise.

I used to plan a winter trip each year to a cold destination. Now, Powell River is my winter choice. Living in southern California, it's always fun to have a bit of snow for the holidays. One year it was Denver, another year Salt Lake City, then Edmonton.

The visit to Edmonton was particularly memorable. There are few places more consistently cold and desolate than Edmonton in the winter. The frigid winds whip across the Alberta prairie, chilling the region to daytime highs of minus 20 C. I've never been so cold in my life, including a two-week winter military deployment in Alaska.

On this Edmonton trip, I ran into some local residents who were, ironically, en route to Anchorage to "warm up." I also watched a fellow at the international airport run to an airline counter, hold out his wallet, and yell: "Give me a ticket to Hawaii!" The Edmonton to Honolulu route must be particularly popular.

When I arrived at the airport in the dark (there's little distinction between day and night in December), the line for customs inspections was short. In fact, my wife, Margy, and I were the customs inspector's only arriving non-Canadian passengers. When he asked the purpose of our travel, I replied: "Vacation." The customs inspector gave us a suspicious look, laughed, and stamped us through.

* * * * *

As I listen to the clanging sailboat hardware, I scrutinize the Canadian Tire ads, reviewing again the discount special on snowshoes and poles. It seems like a fine bargain, but my Powell River wilderness mentor, John, has said that I really don't want to go snowshoeing. Since he seldom misinterprets my real desires (although they often conflict with what I think I want), it's reason to take pause at the advertisement. Maybe this is just like my bout with trolling.

I was convinced that trolling for salmon was something that would thrill me, but John said I'd be totally bored by it. I explained that trolling was perfect for me – kicked back and eating lunch, waiting for the big strike. I often fish on Powell Lake for hours, casting and reeling in, without catching a thing. Yet I'm never bored with casting – fish or no fish.

The ocean's salmon catch has plummeted dramatically in recent decades. The days of fish-after-fish are gone, but a recreational fisherman with patience can still catch a big one. I ask John lots of questions about salmon trolling, window-shopped for rod holders, downriggers, and flashers, and finally take the plunge.

One summer afternoon, we enter the north end of Waddington Channel (prime salmon hunting grounds), all decked out and ready to go. I throw out my lure and flasher and let out lots of line. John guides the boat, all so slow and peaceful. The Yamaha four-stroke is the quietest, sweetest engine at any speed. At severe-slow it makes the summer breeze almost audible.

On this perfect day, I pick up my sandwich and settle into my deck chair, basking in the sun. At this slow speed, I can feel the penetration of the sun's rays, but it's not too hot to mar the moment. Conditions are superb, and I'm finally trolling. John settles into the other deck chair, periodically reaching forward to tap the steering wheel. We sit contentedly munching on our sandwiches, while the rod holders do all of the work. Nothing happens. We continue southbound, ever so slowly, and there's constant nothingness. John is right – this is boring. By the time we reach the mouth of Roscoe Bay, I've had it. John is right, again.

But snowshoeing, if nothing else, is an experience I want to at least try. Yes, it will be a lot of work, trudging through the snow. Yes, it'll be difficult to find the right conditions – this isn't exactly the Canadian Rockies. These rains are bringing snow to the high country, and there will be places nearby with tons of snow. How to get to those spots is a separate problem.

Modern snowshoes are cool looking. I purchase the deluxe kit that comes with adjustable poles and a CD-ROM explaining how to size the shoes to my boots and how to walk in powder. Since I have no computer on this visit to Powell River (and not even TV), the CD is never viewed. I try on the snowshoes and walk around awkwardly in the condo living room, chewing up the carpet with a terrible crunching noise from the crampons.

Margy purchases a similar set, and John has an older pair of snowshoes with more classic lines. His enthusiasm for the outing is limited, but he humours me. Do I realize how hot I'm going to get under several layers of clothing, raising each leg high out of the snow on a mountain slope? There's nothing like being drenched in sweat in the freezing cold.

John likes to explore in the cold, using his quad to blaze new trails or simply pushing the limits of his pickup truck during a climb up Mount Mahony. In fact, he has been going up Mount Mahony with his nephew every evening for the past week. They leave late in the afternoon in John's truck, and come back down after dark (another challenge). What they do for hours on Mount Mahony in winter is beyond me, but they keep repeating it every day that there's snow. Once John finds a place he likes, he absorbs it in regular doses.

Roads to snowshoe country are impossible in my gutless car, and even John's truck is challenged by the climb. When the sky clears in Powell River, you can see the snowpack all around, but you can't get to it. Mount Mahony is the exception. The dirt road, only a few miles outside town, climbs steeply. We begin the climb on Christmas Day. Maybe this will be a new holiday tradition.

The cab of John's truck is crowded. Margy straddles the floor's stick shift, John's dog, Bro, claims the adjacent part of the seat, and I'm plastered against the door. With our multiple-layers of clothing, it's a tight fit. As we begin the upward trek, the climb is in the rain, but it changes to wet snow within a few miles. The tires start to slip and slide, and John loves playing with the truck in these conditions. The ditches along the side of the road are deep and now disguised by snow.

As we climb higher, thick branches and an occasional small tree block the road, fallen under the weight of the heavy canopy of snow. John stops to chainsaw our way through. He's been through this road the night before, but already it's nearly impassible.

We find a spot where the road temporarily widens, and we stop to install the tire chains. This is a cold and sweaty process, as well as a dirty mess. The rusty chains stain my new gloves, so now my gloves are wet, cold, and dirty. But we're going snowshoeing!

The rest of the climb is through rapidly deepening snow. It's coming down hard now, giant white flakes – a beautiful sight. The increasingly slippery road tests John's driving skills. Tire chains, four-wheel drive, and an expert trailblazer can only accomplish so much. We stop several times to clear more branches with the chainsaw, but stopping on these slippery slopes is tricky. Getting started again is even trickier.

Finally, we can go no more. The truck's tires spin and spin, and the vehicle slips backward at an awkward angle. John maneuvers to the side of the narrow road, onto the edge of a snow-covered ditch that we could never get out of in these conditions. He expects that others might try to drive as high as we have today, and he wants the roadway clear for them to pass. Who else would attempt this mountain under these conditions? Answer: Maybe one of John's friends.

The snow on the road is eight inches deep, reduced well below the level of the accumulation in the adjacent woods by trucks like John's over the past few days. This is the minimum snow depth for snowshoes. The truth is that regular hiking boots would work better in these conditions. In the adjacent woods, the snow is several feet deep, but pushing through the bushes is an almost impossible task, so we stay on the road and begin to climb.

Within only a hundred metres, I'm panting and sweating. It's a major effort to lift my leg high, clear the snow pack, push the snowshoe forward, and set it back down. John propels himself forward smoothly on his older-style snowshoes with bear-trap bindings and no poles. I struggle for forward momentum, and without my poles, I would be immobile. Margy is falling behind, puffing and panting, but refusing to give up. Bro romps playfully out in front of us, hopping off the road periodically to pursue some imagined critter. He plays and barks, and we struggle and sweat.

There's a trail to our right, barely visible from the road. It's entirely covered by snow and blends into the terrain, but John knows it well. It takes us across a deep trench that Margy and I struggle to climb. We can only maneuver upward on the other side by turning sideways and digging our crampons into the slope. The snow is several feet deep, and it's here that snowshoes are the only way to get through. The going is tough, but I'm pleased that we have a taste of real snowshoeing for the moment.

John points to a tree ahead, just off to our left. "See the boots?" he asks. What boots? I hardly see the tree in the near white-out of the falling snow. But John's eagle-eyes see something, so I stare at the tree as we continue to lift our snowshoes and plod ahead.

"Boots in the snow?" I ask.

"No, in the tree. About thirty feet up."

Sure enough, there on the lowest branch of a huge fir, two black boots hang from their laces. One of the boot's soles is barely connected, dangling below at a twisted angle.

"What in the world are they doing way up there?" I ask.

It must be some kind of a joke. Who would climb that high in a tree and hang a pair of old boots?

"Lumberjack," answers John. "He just wore them 'til they gave out. Probably considered it a fitting memorial to his logging boots."

The trail continues for about a hundred metres, and ends at a clearing with a single large fallen log. We brush snow off the toppled fir, and sit to eat our lunch. I'm wearing a pair of wool mittens over my gloves, and my fingers are still cold. I remove both layers to get at my sandwich.

John is right, and he's wrong. This has been a lot of hard, sweaty work, and snowshoeing isn't a process of gliding over sun-drenched snowy fields. But this place is like no other. Only those with an intense desire can get here today. Huge flakes of snow fall all around us, with the tops of the clouds so close that sunlight beams through in patches. And I've never tasted a more delicious roast beef sandwich.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 2

Boats and Planes

In recent years, summer vacation destinations were not decided until airborne over DIGGN Intersection, an offshore location forty miles northwest of Seattle and about fifty miles south of the San Juan Islands. The summer adventure always begins on Victor 27, the scenic aeronautical route along the Pacific Coast. You jump on V27 near Santa Barbara and follow it all the way to Astoria, Oregon. Then it's a short jog inland to Olympia, and nearly straight north to DIGGN. That keeps you out of the busy airspace surrounding Seattle.

My wife and I are so familiar with this route that we were upset one summer when we noticed that LOFAL, an intersection in the Seattle area, had been removed from the charts. How could poor old LOFAL be evicted from the area? Pilots are familiar with the intersections they fly over regularly, sometimes becoming attached to these electronic locations like old friends.

During the summer, V27 is one of the most stable weather routes in the world, with low clouds and sometimes a little drizzle along the coast, but seldom a major storm. Turbulence and thunderstorms are almost unheard of this time of year along the Pacific Coast. Victor 27 is best equated to Route 101, the coastal scenic highway. Autopilots enjoy this path too – set V27 in the satellite nav receiver and forget it, but do stay alert and fully awake.

When Margy and I cross DIGGN in our Piper Arrow, the decision has to be resolved. It's farther north to Abbotsford to clear customs, and then into the interior of British Columbia, or hang a slight left toward JAWBN Intersection, less than ten miles from DIGGN. Then you're headed toward Victoria, Vancouver Island, and the Sunshine Coast. It's a choice we've debated every summer, but there seem to be no bad decisions.

In recent years, but prior to discovering Powell River, we chose the JAWBN route for quiet camping vacations on Vancouver Island. One year it was Port Hardy, with a rental car that took us to great camping spots near the tip of Vancouver Island. The next year, Margy and I opted for some variety at the end of our summer schedule, flying from Port Hardy to Powell River. It was merely something different to do, rather than a conscious decision to visit Powell River. The runways on the Sunshine Coast are relatively short, and our Piper Arrow, loaded as a summer RV, can only handle two airstrips here: Powell River and Texada Island's airport (a regular camping spot for us). The runway at Sechelt (I pronounced it "Schlect" for several years before a polite Canadian corrected me) is a bit short for our takeoff performance in the thin, hot air of summer. So there really was no choice.

A tourist guidebook notes that camping spaces are limited in Powell River. We later learn that this is no big deal with so few campers in the area. But Willingdon Beach sounds nice, if not full, with the big plus of being within walking distance to town.

So we head toward the "ugly" paper mill smokestack at Powell River, reminding us of a visit to the Sunshine Coast years ago. On that journey, we camped at Texada's airport (no fuel available), and stopped at Powell River for gas. We walked to the nearby convenience store and hot-footed it out of there. At the time, Powell River seemed like a spot only valuable for a quick drink of 100 low lead and a cold pop.

This time, Powell River is poised to change our minds regarding this mill town. We turn final approach to the airport over Hammil Lake. (Years later, I learned this lake is called "West Lake" by locals – after all, smaller "East Lake" lies beyond it.) The first seemingly staged incident occurs as we pull off the runway and head toward the parking ramp. A deer wanders across the taxiway, immediately in front of us, oblivious to our airplane. A few years later, the deer at the airport are designated a hazard (after a runway collision in 2003), and improved fencing is installed. The deer still invade the airport property, and the municipality approves shooting them as a necessity for runway safety. It's a twisted sign of progress for Powell River.

Willingdon Beach is superb. We drive throughout the area in a rental car, and admit that this region has something to offer, after all. What we don't know is that this is the mere tip of a giant recreational iceberg, and we haven't yet touched the foundation below the surface. Our voyage of discovery as two Americans on summer vacation ("on holiday" in Canadian terminology) gets wonderfully complicated very fast.

Eating dinner at the Shinglemill Pub, we overlook the southern tip of Powell Lake. What we see is beautiful but tiny. It looks more like a pond than the huge hidden lake that extends behind the mountains to the north, and there's not a single cabin in sight. It's a placid environment, with a pub deck overlooking the (then) quiet boat-launching ramp. Several boats depart and others return to the ramp during our meal, and it's intriguing to see the expertise of the locals during the demanding process of boat launch and recovery. We know almost nothing about boats.

We've heard about the float cabins on this lake (a tiny by-the-way in a tourist brochure), so we ask the pub waitress where they are. She isn't sure, but thinks they might be farther up the lake and out of sight. She's pretty certain there aren't many cabins on the lake.

Powell River locals are generally very knowledgeable regarding their geographic environment, but there are some who demonstrate California-like ignorance of all that's around them. Recently, while off-loading our all-terrain vehicles (quads) near Duck Lake, only a few miles outside of town, a BC licenced car pulled up beside us and asked directions to Inland Lake. These were locals with relatives from out of town who wanted to go for a hike, and they were completely lost. I suggested they try hiking right here (Duck Lake), the source of some of the most beautiful trails in the area. But they were determined to find Inland Lake, so I gave them directions. They had passed the well-marked turnoff several miles back. I got the impression these locals seldom left their living room.

On the other hand, a more common experience is exemplified by my meeting some rowdy women performing wheelies on their quads during a stop at Dodd Lake. In this case, I was the person seeking directions, and these women offered expert instructions. I probably expressed a little surprise when they removed their helmets to reveal their identity as white-haired grandmothers.

On my second visit to the Shinglemill Pub, I discover a completely different marina. On a Friday evening at about 5 PM, trailered boats are plopping into the launching ramp waters adjacent to the pub like Canadian mosquitoes. One after another, pickup trucks (not always new but always burly) off-load trailered boats into the lake. It's so busy that they are launching two at a time, side-by-side pickup trucks with boats of every size and description. The most common boat design includes the "ugly" (not my current view) camper package. The full canvas covering can make even the sportiest boat look like a derelict hulk. Typically, a "kicker" is mounted on the transom as a spare low-horsepower outboard motor to get you home if all else fails (also good for trolling).

It's a symphony of efficiency as these boats slip off their trailers and are pulled to the side for temporary mooring at the dock. As trucks and their trailers back into the launch ramp, some boats are propelled rearward into the water by the soft screech of the vehicle's brakes. It's quicker than pushing the boat off the trailer (and also looks a bit dangerous). While dad parks the truck, the rest of the family hauls every conceivable commodity to the awaiting boat. Cases of beer and bags of groceries (potato chips in boxes are popular) go aboard, and then along comes dad with the more unusual items. Huge propane tanks are rolled awkwardly along the floating dock. Two-by-fours, sheets of plywood, and a plethora of water toys are loaded aboard these boats.

Mom, the kids, the family dog, and (finally) dad hop aboard. Dad cranks the engine, and the boat disappears up the lake with lumber and who-knows-what sticking out the back of the canvas cover. The vessels disappear out of sight to the north like 15th-century sailing ships, vanishing over the horizon – in this case, around the mountain – into uncharted waters.

This continues for several hours – everyone leaving, no one coming back. A raunchy looking fellow with a filthy white T-shirt and a scruffy beard assists one particularly buxom young lady into her boat. He hands her several bags of groceries, a case of beer, and a baby. Then he removes the docking lines, pushes the boat from the wharf, and waves goodbye as the woman adeptly steers the runabout from the crowded area. The man waves once more – she returns the wave almost blindly over her shoulder – and then he heads back to his pickup truck, maybe for a night on the town.

So there must be more than a few cabins up the lake. This flotilla is going somewhere out-of-sight. The departure ritual has become an event that I, to this day, find worth a visit to the pub on Friday evenings. On Sunday evenings, the reversal of the flow is also exciting, but you can see the disappointment in the adventurers' eyes as they return to their routine lives in town.

* * * * *

Margy and I decide to rent a small boat and explore the lake. Rounding the first bend and approaching Three-Mile Bay (officially designated as Schmarge Bay, but I've never heard it called that), I receive my first shock. The cabins floating along the shoreline are not what I've imagined. They are full-size buildings, bridged to shore by gangplanks. It's love at first sight.

After a day of lake cruising, we proceed to a real estate office and a truthful agent who provides us a boatload of reasons to look elsewhere for a second home. She has little positive to say about float cabins except that they are unique and a good way for a person with mechanical aptitudes to spend endless hours on maintenance, especially considering the winter storms in this area. In fact, float cabins are so unique that they aren't even real estate (no land titles). They remain an artifact of this part of British Columbia, with cabins handed down by locals from generation to generation. Americans can't lease water rights on Crown (government) property, so it seems, sadly, like a dead issue from the very beginning.

Our insistence causes the real estate agent to recommend a colleague who might be willing to talk to us. In other words, she gets rid of us. That's how we meet Harry.

Harry represents all that distinguishes this portion of the Sunshine Coast. He isn't in the float cabin business – although, like a lot of the locals, he owns a float cabin himself – but he's ready to assist us as newcomers. Later, when we have actual real estate interests, it's not surprising that Harry quickly becomes "our man."

Harry is going to help us find a float cabin, regardless of commercial and government obstacles. There are two cabins that he immediately identifies for sale with the aid of the local newspaper.

We visit the first cabin via a rented tin boat, and it's an immediate disappointment, nearly shattering my dream of float cabin life. Knowing nothing about float cabins, it isn't difficult to tell that there are problems with this structure that begin with the sagging float.

I've obtained permission to enter the cabin without the owner's presence (no locks). The interior is packed with items that should make a home more comfortable, but to me it looks like endless clutter. As a float cabin owner, what do you do with stuff you no longer need? Answer: Haul it all the way back to town by boat, dump it where you shouldn't (if it sinks), or simply let it accumulate. In this case, the accumulation doesn't promote my interest in the cabin.

Harry provides general instructions for finding the second cabin. Most locations on Powell Lake are pretty general – "It's between Hole in the Wall and Elvis Rock" (a wooden cutout of the King with his guitar sitting on a promontory) or "towards the Head from Bear Tooth Creek." In this case, Harry's instructions for Hole in the Wall are simple: "Through First Narrows, on the left. You can't miss it."

Hole in the Wall lives up to its name, and the tin boat finds the blue roof, as advertised. This cabin sells itself by location alone, nestled up against granite cliffs, with steep winding stairs leading... somewhere.

Now the first decision: What liberties should a prospective buyer take in examining the property without the owner's permission? In this case, we have no one's authority to cross the floating logs that constitute the apparent "property line."

Float cabins are surrounded by breakwaters, large logs chained together to arbitrarily declare your claimed area and protect the cabin from storm waves and the wakes of passing boats. The breakwater logs for this cabin are huge (I like that). With no one in sight, it seems appropriate to venture inside the log-outlined property line.

But now where do you "land"? The dominant wooden ladder seems a likely spot, but at the time, we don't know it's for swimming access rather than boat docking. An amateur maneuvering a tin boat in the vicinity of a swim ladder, with a huge brow log and other float foundation obstacles nearby, isn't a coordinated sight. A handmade plywood sign is also in the way, blocking our climb up the ladder. The spelling of "Fore Sale" gets our attention as we try to navigate around the sign. Finally, Margy and I manage to get aboard the float. It's not a graceful entry to a summer home, even less elegant when we later realize that we didn't recognize the adjacent deck (right around the corner) for what it is – a spacious boat dock. We have a lot to learn.

Once on the float, it's clear that this is a marvel of construction. The doors are unlocked. In we slip, after a quick look in all directions to avoid arrest by the RCMP.

This cabin is immediately livable, with all the comforts of home but none of the accumulated junk that made the previous structure so cluttered and unappealing. There are just enough pots and pans, dishes, and canned food on the shelf. Are the utensils and food part of the deal? A bright blue hand pump is mounted adjacent to the sink, and I have to give the handle a swing. Water gushes out. And then I twist the hot and cold faucets. What do I expect? Then it dawns on me that sinks come standard with faucets whether you possess running water or not. Not a trickle from the faucets, of course.

There's a handsome wood stove with a glass firewood-loading door, a propane four-burner cooking stove (above an oven with hand-written ignition instructions on the side), and overhead propane lights in the combined kitchen and living area. A small dinette set with chairs, reminding me of my childhood home, sits empty of clutter. Since then, this table has spent every day topped with stuff that prohibits using it for dining. The picnic table under the porch roof is, these days, the choice location for meals, rain or shine.

A refrigerator (I scratch my head) stands adjacent to the stove. How do you make cold with propane? Well-spaced bookshelves are nearly empty, with a few paperback books, candles topping empty wine bottles, and a souvenir plate from Newfoundland. So well does it represent the flavour of this home that this plate hasn't moved in subsequent years.

Blinds and drapes, a soft sofa and chair (also in a style reminiscent of my childhood home), and a tub of kindling wood compliment the cabin. Everything seems destined to be there, fitting into my concept of float cabin lifestyles. Two small bedrooms complete the downstairs layout. A bedroom loft is the only crammed area, with five wall-to-wall beds that don't match. The beds are pushed against each other into one giant sleeping area.

A two-foot length of heavy twine hangs from a living room rafter above the wood stove, with no obvious purpose. I imagine it as the hanging place for a party balloon, representing a summer when children scurry about, running outside to jump from the deck, cannonballing into the water. The twine still hangs in its original location today, waiting for another balloon.

On top of the wood stove sits a metal rack from the interior of an oven. It's bent – not easily accomplished – in a perfect shape to surround the protruding smoke stack that leads to the roof. The natural design of the rack elevates it from the top surface of the stove by an inch. At first this is a mystery, since it's of painstaking design but serving no obvious purpose. During our first winter on the float, we use that rack every day for drying gloves and reheating the coffee pot. There's a purpose for absolutely everything in this cabin.

Those steep outside stairs, just beyond the gangplank to the transition float and the bridge to shore, lead to the storage shed and the outhouse on top of the hill. The shed is a solid-looking structure hanging from the cliff. A window in the shed looks out over the transition float, and I wonder why this portal is there. Could it be an emergency exit if you're locked in the shed by mistake (a long drop down), or is it for a purpose too difficult for city-folk to comprehend? Sheds on this lake are essential. When you leave your property, you may leave your cabin unlocked, but all of the important items (tools!) are secured in your shed.

* * * * *

This is "it," if ever there was an "it." But my emotions are crazed by this place. How can a couple from Los Angeles maintain a cabin floating on a lake in British Columbia? We can only visit here a few times a year, primarily summertime. We've heard about the vicious winter storms and the all-consuming maintenance required of float cabin owners. I recognize my lack of desire to maintain anything, anywhere, anytime. But it's the Song of the Sirens calling to us. This is "it," and "it" is calling in a voice loud and not possible to ignore.

A lawyer – a barrister in official Canadian-speak – is necessary in the purchase process. We need to establish a Canadian corporation to overcome the legal issues involving Americans and the necessary Canadian water rights. Harry says this will work – somehow.

The process is quick. So quick, in fact, that Harry says the deal will go through in a matter of ten days. We fly home to California and return the next week. We revisit the float in a newly purchased boat that will serve as transportation to our new home. Even though Harry has assured us this cabin will be ours in a few days, it wouldn't be right to sleep inside, although the doors are unlocked. But we linger on the deck. We have our tent, so what harm would it be to pitch it on the cabin deck, out of sight of passing boats? Then it starts to rain.

The first rainy night we stand fast in our conviction to occupy the tent rather than the interior of the cabin. The second day we venture inside out of the weather and return to the tent that evening. The tent floor is soaked, our sleeping bag is saturated, and the wind howls as the rain pours down in sheets. We move inside.

Somehow this will work, but it also requires a braveness in financial ventures that's not common for me. The transaction for the sale of the cabin involves a hand-written statement and a seller's signature on a page of yellow, lined notebook paper (a classic-looking bill of sale). This is more like buying a used bicycle than a house. The water lease paperwork is quick, and we're float cabin occupants. We now possess a Canadian numbered corporation with no name and a president we barely know – our new barrister.

Things are quickly getting complicated – a car is needed to get from the airport to the marina, a boat is necessary to get to the cabin, and equipment requirements grow more convoluted from there.

And so, after flying around Canada every summer for twenty years, we find what we aren't even looking for only eighty miles northwest of Vancouver. Our new home is more isolated than many places in the Yukon, since it requires a minimum of two ferries (or an airplane) to get to Powell River, followed by boat-only-access to the cabin.

As I've repeatedly told my Canadian friends: I've seen more of Canada than most Canadians (they all seem to agree). I've camped on the shores of the Arctic Ocean, wandered through the tundra of Nunavut and the Northwest Territories, and seen some of the most glorious locations in the entire country. It's a beautiful land, but in the end, I found Powell River and a cabin floating on a lake. After two decades, I no longer explore remote sections of Canada, searching for the ultimate beauty. It is here.

And the best news of all is something Margy and I didn't know when we purchased this floating cabin – it comes complete with its seller and builder, John. This isn't stipulated on the hand-written yellow bill of sale, but it doesn't take long for me to realize I've received the most unique lifetime warranty ever bartered.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 3

Slash

I find evidence of John's construction genius everywhere. In the loft of the float cabin, I notice scribbling on a roof beam that I interpret as John's as-you-go blueprint. He built this cabin from scratch, beginning with the float foundation constructed from raw cedar logs.

I meet John for the first time a week after the purchase, when he visits Number 2, his cabin immediately across the bay that's registered in the name of one of his brothers. John's cabins received numbers in the order he built (or rebuilt) them. His primary cabin is Number 1 (registered to another brother), our cabin still goes by the designation of Number 3, and Number 4 is near the south end of the lake. Thus, there's no logical geographical order to the sites; first is Number 4, then Number 1, then... Of course, this is perfectly logical to John.

After struggling with this numbering system for several years, I complain to John's father, as if it's within his control. His father, in his own unique sense of reasoning, indicates that he considers it logical from a geographic standpoint.

"Start with Number 1, halfway up the lake," he says. Okay, that's a reasonable place to begin.

"Now, the next cabin north of Number 1 is Number 2," he adds. Not bad so far.

"Farther north, across the bay from Number 2, is your cabin, Number 3." This is starting to make sense.

"Now, the only cabin that's missing is Number 4, so you jump way south and complete the list."

Well, I must admit this is a good way to remember the still illogical numbering arrangement. In any case, John knows his own system, so that's all that really matters.

I'm anxious to meet John and learn the answers to some of the mysteries of our cabin, so I wave frantically to him when I see his boat at Number 2. He slowly motors across the bay and slips effortlessly into the small docking space behind our boat. This day is the first time I watch John smoothly "kick the ass around," a boating technique for docking that takes me a long time to learn. John really knows boats.

Do the wire-rimmed eyeglasses on the shelf belong to him? – "No, they must have been left behind by a previous renter." Is the balloon string for one of his children? – John reacts with surprise when I suggest he has children (he doesn't); the string was from a previous renter. John also explains to me why he built a window into the shed: "I thought it might be nice to gaze over the bay and check things out when you're in the shed." John is forever checking things out.

I want to discuss my alternatives for looking after this cabin during our extensive absences. There must be a company that will act as a caretaker for me, or maybe John is interested (he is). And the lack of locks bothers me. Should we really return to Los Angeles with our new cabin unlocked? How will we sleep in California, knowing that our floating home in Canada is completely unsecured?

"Everybody around here is pretty trustworthy," notes John. "And if you have a lock, it looks like you have something valuable inside to steal."

I don't want to contradict that, but after my first apprehensive round-trip to Los Angeles, I ask John to install a lock. He does so reluctantly.

There are lots of lessons about trust in this security dilemma. Unless I mistakenly conclude that John is unlike the rest of the region's locals (he isn't, but he does possess exceptional talents), this is an environment where people have confidence in each other. They also must rely on their own skills to get things done. They cannot always depend on the outside world to meet their everyday needs, so the locals practice self-reliance. Part of what is unique about coastal British Columbia is its lack of dependence on a surrounding world of specialization. John exemplifies these characteristics more than any other person I've met.

On that first day with him, I ask about the scribbling on the roof beam, but he can't remember why it's there. He used no blueprints or plans for our cabin except those in his head. He simply started one day, lashing together the cedar float, and things just developed as he went along.

* * * * *

As true city-folk attempting to convert to an existence as local-folk, we didn't expect a lot out of ourselves when it came to living on a float. I've camped in areas that would be considered remote by U.S. standards, but this float cabin is day-after-day living in a location where there are very few people. In the winter, several weeks can go by before anyone pokes their head into the Hole in the Wall, although crew boats ply the channel a half-kilometre out my front door every weekday. That's pretty remote, on a consistent basis, for a guy like me.

I'm not exactly afraid of the dark and my own shadow – at least not at the same time – but I'm also not Mr. Tough-Guy. When I bring a particularly scary Stephen King novel to the cabin on one of my first solo winter trips, I question my motives. I decide later that I'm simply trying to scare myself to death to see what happens.

This particular horror novel begins with two hunters trudging their way through snow in a mysterious and scary landscape to their cabin in northern Maine. As I read with a battery-powered book-light in the loft on a dreary winter evening, it isn't long before the protagonists encounter their first ugly alien phenomenon (nebulous and slimy). Then, I turn the page and learn that the cabin in the Maine woods has a nickname – Hole in the Wall.

A few pages later, I set the book aside, wondering how I managed to make such a fine literary selection at a time like this. I gaze out the bedroom window that overlooks the narrowest neck in the Hole's cliff walls. It has just started to snow, and I imagine slimy aliens slinking towards me. After that night, the only possible direction for my level of fright is downward. I'm amazed that I slept that evening, but I did, and I've slept comfortably nearly every night since then.

Even though I surprise myself with quick adaptation to the remoteness, I still lock the doors and windows at night. When you live in the city for so long, it's tough to toss out old habits, even when you know they're no longer valid actions. In reality, the locking of doors isn't a habit to break; it's a remnant fear. I lock the doors of the cabin while asking myself if it's really necessary. At first, the answer is "Yes," but that's simply rationalization. I feel uncomfortable sleeping with unlocked doors, since it violates the city's standard.

"You're no longer in the city," I say to myself, unconvincingly. What are the risks here? A bear could come down the 50-degree angled stairs from the cliff (there has never been any evidence of bear activity near the float), cross the bridge and gangplank, and slide open the patio screen and then the door itself (animals do the darndest things). Or how about a squirrel? A squirrel could do this too.

Or a thief, even a murderer, could sneak onto the float in the middle of the night, traveling ten miles in a boat from the Shinglemill in the dark. I'd probably sleep through a thief approaching in a boat at night (when the Hole is perfectly quiet), even though the float-rocking wake from the boat and the creaking on the deck would clearly announce his arrival. There's also the question as to why a thief would go to all that trouble.

I stop locking the doors and windows one night, and a bear hasn't attacked me, nor have I been murdered. I'm no longer afraid of the dark. It's funny that such a transition would occur in a place where some might say that everyone should be afraid of the dark. I now love the darkness. In fact, I relish it.

There's something wonderfully mysterious about Powell Lake at night. I wake up in the blackness and can't resist going out on the deck. The stars are so beautifully brilliant, and the Milky Way streams overhead. There are few places (that you can get to) where the night is so dark. The black middle-of-night hours are mysterious, and the Hole's darkness is even more encompassing. It surrounds you and absorbs you. There are astronomical mysteries in the night sky, so why should there not be even more mysteries in this unique and remote night sky? There are strange extraordinary events here, I'm certain. But they are decidedly friendly phenomena, and that includes the darkness.

* * * * *

Over time, I hike and bike with John throughout the Powell River region. Generally, I rely on him to select our routes and destinations But there are two hikes I keep insisting on, although John reminds me that I really don't want to attempt these treks – they will be far from grand. One hike is the steep climb from Powell Lake to Frog Pond (officially designated as Frogpond Lake, although I've never heard anyone call it that). John portrays the hike as "a lot of effort for nothing." According to him: "You climb nearly vertically up the south shore of Goat Island and finally arrive at the boring end of the lake."

Frog Pond is too big to be considered a pond; floatplanes land there routinely. John has made the climb several times and describes that end of Frog Pond as "a swamp without a view." I continue to badger him to make the climb with me, but he always has excuses for leading me elsewhere.

The second hike that I pester him about involves a climb behind my cabin to an old dirt road. I found the road on a logging map and have glimpsed it from my airplane. It would be a real challenge to get to the road, but it should be an interesting climb. John accomplished this hike previously, and he doesn't recommend it. There's a logging slash that must be crossed as you approach the old road, and slashes are not hiker-friendly. When the loggers leave an area, the undergrowth takes over quickly, and soon the slash is almost impossible to traverse. But my mind is set on this hike. After all, it's in my own backyard, and I need to become familiar with this area.

One winter day, I attempt the hike to the old road by myself, but soon I lose track of the trail. Where I end up is probably not on the trail at all. I can see ahead to an area where sunshine seems to be pushing into a clearing (the slash?), but I run out of energy in the snow. Without a clear trail, it's difficult to continue. So I rest on a fallen log, eat my sandwich, and then turn around and track back to my cabin.

I continue to harass John about this hike, and he continues to tell me he isn't interested. He reminds me that I won't enjoy it.

"That slash is a killer, and the logging road at the other end isn't worth the effort," he explains.

But there's nothing that's going to keep me from conquering this route, so I set a date during the summer, invite John (busy, as expected – he has to move some beach rocks at his cabin), and I push off alone one morning.

My start up the hill isn't as early as I intended. By the time I organize my hiking gear, it's eight o'clock, but still early enough to beat the summer heat. I'll need to hike with long pants, heavy boots, and a long-sleeve shirt, since the brush will be rough, and mosquitoes could be a problem.

I climb my cliff steps, pass the outhouse, and head toward the cliff viewpoint. Then I turn left and start along the cliff trail to the neighboring cabin. This path has overgrown considerably since I last hiked it during the winter, and I want to keep it open as a safety valve in case I need to get to my neighbor's cabin. The trail nearly disappears at times, so trampling it down and removing overhanging branches is an added incentive to hike this path today.

When I reach the trail that comes up to meet me from the nearby cabin, I notice that my neighbor's portion of the trail is better maintained. I vow to walk this route more often, stomping down the trail.

Where the two cabin paths join, they start upward as a joint trail away from the shoreline. This will lead me to the logging slash. As I progress, the trail becomes harder to follow. I tear off pieces of trail marking tape, flaming red reminders that this is the way home. John has suggested I leave a tape mark every ten metres when the going gets rough. I can see how easy it would be to lose the trail completely, so I tear off the tape regularly and place it on overhanging branches.

Natural gullies and downed logs disguise the route, although an occasional notch cut by a chainsaw in a fallen log assures me that I'm still on the main path. I don't feel that I need my GPS yet, so I leave it in my backpack, conserving its battery.

I hike upward and around corners where fallen logs change the obscure trail's route. Sometimes the nebulous trail leads downhill, and for long stretches I'm not sure I'm really on a trail at all. I climb over decaying logs, scale some minor escarpments, and make slow progress toward the slash.

I'm starting to sweat, although the trees keep me in the shade. After hiking for nearly an hour, sunlight ahead indicates that I'm probably coming to the slash. But as I approach closer, I notice that the opening leads to a cliff overlooking the water. Maybe I've veered too far west. Could this be Chippewa Bay?

As I approach the edge of the cliff, I confront a bright red marker. It's my own trail marking tape! I look over the cliff and see my neighbor's cabin, the same location I passed nearly an hour ago. My initial efforts have brought me back to my starting point. That's when I decide to turn on my GPS.

The satellite map points me toward the slash, as I backtrack past several of my original trail markers. Occasionally losing the GPS signal in the dense part of the forest, I leave more red trail marking tape behind. This is now a completely different trail, and hopefully it's the right one. Sunlight streams directly ahead, and the electronic map confirms that the logging slash is directly in front of me. I break out of the woods into sunlight, and then the hard part of the hike begins.

My GPS indicates that the logging road enters the slash from the far side and ends near the middle of the clearing. I start directly toward an area near the center of the slash that seems a likely prospect, and my pace slows to a crawl.

This area was logged in the previous decade, and abandoned timber is strewn everywhere. The underbrush is thick, since the cleared trees allow sunlight to nourish the ground. Often I can't see the smaller discarded logs that are hidden below the brush, so I trip my way across the slash. Sometimes I'm totally stopped in my tracks by berry vines. The vines wrap around my legs and torso, their sharp barbs grabbing my pants. I try to push forward, hearing the sharp thorns tear across my pants and the lower portion of my shirt. When my skin is punctured, it's time to stop, unwrap myself from the vines with my gloves, and then start forward again. I whack my ankles on logs and small cut-off stumps that I can't see below the brush. Generally, I'm hiking through brush that comes up to my waist, but often it meets my chest or goes above my head. This is no fun at all.

The surest route is on top of fallen logs. It's worth getting onto these raised natural walkways in order to see my surroundings better. And when I'm walking logs, most of the berry barbs are below. If a fallen fir heads in the general direction I'm trying to go, I'll take it. It means a zigzag path to the center of the slash, but it's the path of least resistance.

I stop to check the GPS. I'm now in the center of the slash, and my satellite position marker indicates that I'm at the end of the logging road. But there's no road here.

I continue a little farther, now really starting to perspire in the open sunlight. My shirt is soaked. Every step is a major effort. I stumble, cut my legs on the berry barbs, tumble in every direction possible, and make very slow progress. I'm now convinced the road is entirely overgrown and not worth finding.

On a log that's less surrounded by berry vines than most, I stop for a drink of water. This is my limit. It's time to give up, turn around, and forge my way back out of the slash.

I dial John's number on my satellite phone. As soon as he answers, I decide to admit immediate defeat. Rather than a "Hello," I greet John with a rhetorical question.

"Why didn't you tell me this logging slash was such a disaster?"

"I did. Weren't you listening?"

"Of course not. I had to find out for myself. You were right, as always."

"Did you find the road?" asks John.

"I think it's entirely overgrown. I should be on it right now, according to my GPS. But it's not here. Just fallen logs, thick brush, and those damn berry vines."

"Nature's barbed wire," says John.

"I'm giving up and heading back," I announce in defeat.

"Where are you?" asks John. "Which end of the slash?"

"Pretty much in the middle, maybe a bit to the west of center," I answer.

"Are you near the cliff on the west side?"

Is this guy a mind reader? I'm sitting on a log that's perched at the base of a steep escarpment.

"As a matter of fact, I am," I answer. "There's a cliff right behind me."

"Look a little to the north," he says. "There should be a grove of alders right near you."

I can't believe my eyes. There are the alders, just as John describes. What kind of map does this guy have in his brain? He hasn't been here for years.

"I see them!" I yell into the phone.

"Well, if you can get over to those trees, that's the end of the road. They built the logging road into the slash from the other side, and the alders grew up around it."

I have a GPS, and can't find the road. John can see the road through the telephone.

After hanging up, it's a 100-foot hike to the alders. Sure enough, the road begins (ends) here, and I can easily follow it. The dirt path is severely overgrown; but compared to the rest of the slash, this is a superhighway. I walk the old road for about a mile, reaching a breathtaking viewpoint over the lake. Then I turn around and start home, triumphant that I've achieved my goal.

On the way back, I try a shortcut across the slash – anything to avoid more berry "barbed wire." I walk on logs whenever possible. Halfway out of the slash, I step between two small logs, jamming my foot. I pull on my leg, but it won't come out of the log crevasse. I'm confident that I can get my foot out by loosening my hiking boot, but it will be a long way home with only one boot. Finally, my foot and boot break loose, and I stumble forward to find more berry vines and bushes to tear against my body. I'm exhausted when I reach the end of the slash, but entering the woods is a major relief. It's easier to see the ground here than in the slash, and my footing is more solid.

My shortcut places me out of reach of the original trail, so I hike through the dense forest (with its own obstacles of boulders, rotted stumps, and undergrowth), finally reaching a dry creek bed. Following this creek downhill should take me to the lake. At one point, I stop short of a small waterfall (now dry) by only a few feet. Two extra steps would have caused at least minor injuries. I rest there for a few minutes to catch my breath, and then continue downhill until I find a path that might have been my original trail into the slash. It's a battle all the way back to my cabin. Not once do I see any of my red trail markers.

That night, I call John and tell him that he was right about the slash. And in case he's wondering, I've changed my mind about the hike to Frog Pond.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 4

Up the Lake from the Shinglemill

I face a mighty big learning curve. Nearly everybody in Powell River knows boats, so they assume I do too. My background in airplanes converts in many areas – even aerodynamics transitions when you consider that both air and water have similar properties as fluids. But in other areas, I'm just setting myself up for a fall. Sometimes the fall is embarrassing, and sometimes it's life-threatening – fortunately, more of the former than the latter. John, an expert boater, tries to keep me in line through constant instruction.

He practices the immersion method of education. He briefs me on the basics of a boating topic and then sends me out to practice the more advanced features solo. There's nothing like the real world to teach you the finer aspects of boating – and humility. As a result, I usually don't make the same mistake three times.

My first boat purchase isn't the greatest decision, but it is a quick choice. That's important, because I need a boat to get me to my float cabin. My second purchase is an even worse decision, but the good news is that John buys my third boat, so it works out fine. That's all in the course of only two years, so things are happening pretty fast for me in the boating world. What I learn in the process is... Well, it's enough to write a book. Some might call it a horror story.

My first boat is adequate transportation to get me to and from my cabin, most of the time. Unfortunately, it isn't reliable. The boat itself is a classic seventeen-foot Hourston, just about perfect for the mission. But the 70-horsepower Merc outboard is a victim of old age. It's an engine design that was great in its time, but its time has passed (not to be confused with the newer vroom-vroom Mercs.) At idle, it spurts white foamy stuff resembling pancake dough, and it has a nasty habit of quitting when shifting gears. This is especially problematic for a fellow who needs to shift gears a lot during docking. This results in a few paint scrapes, mostly involving the Shinglemill dock. It doesn't help that I'm the low man in the Shinglemill pecking order, so I get to parallel park a lot. Even with more experience and a new boat (and a higher seniority parking spot), I leave a Campion docking light cover in fifty feet of water at the Shinglemill, the result of a departure collision with a nearby dock. It takes a lot of brute force to tear a docking light cover off the side of a Campion.

The last straw for the ol' Merc occurs when Margy is alone on our float during our first autumn of cabin ownership. A city-folk woman alone on a float in November is stretching it a bit, since storms during the fall can develop quickly in the Gulf of Alaska. They move rapidly southward down the Pacific Coast with increasing intensity. Our satellite phone contributes to the situation by providing Margy a false sense of security.

John assists her on her trip to the cabin that November. Within minutes (more like seconds) of leaving the Shinglemill, she snags a giant rope and wraps it around the propeller. Fortunately, John is flying formation with her in his boat, so he gets her untangled. The rest of the journey goes without incident. But on the second night on the float, an Aleutian low begins its approach. Rather than return to town, the city-folk woman (later dubbed Frontier Jane) decides to ride it out. How bad can a November storm become?

My home phone in California rings at about 8 PM. It takes three redialed attempts before I get the thrust of Frontier Jane's message. The satellite phone must be used in an open-sky area, and is interrupted by heavy precipitation. Margy stands on the float deck, trying to keep the phone antenna oriented skyward in the wind and rain. The heavy precipitation interrupts each attempted call. Finally, I understand the main component of the message – one of the three-quarter-inch restraining cables has broken loose (almost unheard of for float cabins), and the float is swinging away from shore at one corner. The gangplank has slipped off the transition float in the process, and Frontier Jane is on a floating island, secured to the cliffs by three additional cables. There's little danger of being pushed farther outward, although we don't understand that fact at the time. She's riding out a major storm in a home whose foundation we barely understand.

There are other dangers, since the whole cabin is being forced toward the tethered logs that form the breakwater. With the boat secured to the float deck, the Hourston and its old Merc stand poised to be crushed between the float and the breakwater.

Leaving the float is out of the question. With the gangplank gone, going to shore would require a swim in the cold November water, and the cliffs have little to offer anyway. Earlier, it might not have been too late to hop aboard the Hourston and head for the Shinglemill. Frontier Jane doesn't profess to hold advanced boating skills, and that 70-horse Merc could let her down in stormy conditions. That pretty well seals the fate of the aging engine, as far as I'm concerned, but it doesn't solve Margy's challenges for the night.

As we talk (connection after connection is broken and then reestablished a few minutes later), I tune in the Weather Channel from my cozy home in California. Here the 8 PM temperature has dropped to a balmy 65 degrees F (18 C) after a simply gorgeous autumn day. Kicked back in my living room chair, I wait for the national weather map to appear. Of course, all weather on U.S. television stops at the border, with major rain in the Washington area disappearing off an imaginary cliff to the north. To add further insult, the Weather Channel logo appears right over the top of Powell River. But interpolation works wonders, and the developing low-pressure system in the Pacific Northwest can be clearly imagined.

While I'm still on the phone, the Pacific Ocean surface analysis chart appears (a rarity), highlighting the storm moving out of the Gulf of Alaska. In fact, it's the big weather news of the evening – those poor Seattle residents sitting in their comfy homes on solid foundations. The isobars appear on the screen, tightly spaced. As a pilot, Margy understands the threat of closely bound isobars (strong winds), so I decide I should be truthful, although I briefly consider otherwise.

"I'm not sure I've ever seen isobars so tightly wrapped," I stammer. "This is a mighty big storm, and it's still moving in."

For the next few minutes (two more lost connections), we discuss her options. She has already lost the opportunity to leave the float, either to shore or via boat, so we discuss the remaining alternatives. Riding it out with the satellite phone ready to speed-dial the Coast Guard or RCMP seems like the only viable course. The wind is probably already too bad for a helicopter evacuation, but the local Coast Guard can trailer their twin-outboard inflatable to Powell Lake quickly. In fact, a few months later, I talk to the Coast Guard about this, and they admit it would have been a fun night for them. "Good practice" is how they phrase it.

When the wind blows in storms like these (so far, I've been aboard the cabin only during lesser storms), the cabin moans in discomfort. The restraining cables play out their full length as the cabin swings outward, and then the cables bring the float to an abrupt halt. It's not enough to throw you to the floor, but it's enough to get your attention. Around the cliff corner from our cabin is our neighbor's floating storage shed, constructed from an old travel trailer. It's not normally visible from our float, so you tend to forget you have neighbors. But simultaneous with our cabin's outward thrust, the trailer appears from around the corner, as it too moves with the wind. Next, our float rebounds toward shore, only to be suddenly stopped by another cable or the stiff-leg (a hefty log that prevents the cabin from jamming against the cliff). During storms, we move in concert with the old floating trailer on a typical cycle of five minutes or less.

During most storms, the winds tend to swirl in the Hole, and I worry about the large trees on top of the cliff. If one of these falls, it would drop nearly a hundred feet before impacting the water, the float, or our roof. The swirling winds might rip the roof off before that happens. This cabin and is strong ("skookum," as John would say), but so is Mother Nature.

Margy spends a sleepless night in the lower floor den – the room farthest from the portion of the metal roof that seems most poised to depart the cabin. The next morning, the winds calm behind the storm. The waves are still rolling, and the lake is cluttered with logs, but Frontier Jane takes the 70-horse Merc on its last important ride. Upon arrival at the Shinglemill, she meets John, who is just preparing to launch his boat in an attempt to recover her from the float. Canadian posse to the rescue.

John is adequately impressed. Had he been a drinking man, he would have propped Frontier Jane up at the local bar and bragged to his buddies about her survival.

* * * * *

That's the death knell for the ol' Merc and a great excuse for replacing it with a new Yamaha four-stroke. It isn't clear whether the seventeen-foot Hourston can handle the added weight, but I really want the 115 horsepower model, after ogling the motor at a Los Angeles boat shop. The 100 horsepower version is more firmly within weight limits, but the extra bells and whistles of the 115's fuel injection system make me a pushover.

Delay after delay (the motor's in Vancouver and should be on the next barge, or the next, or...), but finally the engine is installed and shaken down by John. He insists on some minor adjustments, since mechanical things must be perfect to satisfy him. This is a major sale for a local shop, but most retailers find that John gets his money's worth from any sale. He keeps demanding hydraulic adjustments in the engine tilt-trim, requires recalibration of some of the instruments, and finally the engine is accepted. "It's okay – you can pay them now," he says to me over the telephone.

The next trip to Powell River is my opportunity to try out the new engine. The first and most impressive thing is the low noise level. This motor is a joy to operate or to hear coming. I still hear it coming regularly, since the engine eventually ends up with John as I upgrade to another boat. That engine causes me to stir inside when I hear it – smooth, quiet, and powerful.

I also see my old Merc quite often. John isn't about to discard this piece of (worthless to me) equipment. Instead, he finds an old boat that the owner wants to get off his property – not exactly a fine piece of machinery – and John decides to mate it to my old engine. The rebuilding of this boat is miraculous. The end result is a spiffy looking classic boat that's sold to his nephew (keep it in the family), but there's only so much that can be done with the motor. Of course, this engine is far better off after John's attention, but it's still old and unreliable. It develops a new tendency that I fortunately never experienced: It catches fire repeatedly, usually in remote locations. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for John's nephew, the fire is put out each time so that John can try to nurse the motor back to health. It would have been far better as an anchor. In fact, the fate of many local outboard engines as they age is a watery grave in the bowels of Powell Lake, dropped overboard (by mistake, of course) out of sight of onlookers. ("Stand back – there she goes!")

This Yamaha is my first boating experience with a speedometer (in this case, via a transducer mounted on the engine) and my first contact with motor trim-tilt for increased RPM and forward speed. The trim control is almost (but not quite) what I'm used to in aircraft. Push the thumb switch on the throttle forward, and the bow rises. It's just the opposite for an airplane, so you can imagine what common calamity awaits me. Overtrim in the bow-up direction can quickly lead to porpoising and loss of control. That's not a good thing when you act fast due to decades of airplane experience, but act in the totally wrong direction.

I depart the Shinglemill on my first flight with the new engine – so smooth, so powerful. Acceleration is noticeably improved from the old Merc, and I'll finally be able to water-ski behind this boat. As I throttle up abeam Mowat Bay, the water is without waves, almost glassy. What a day for a flight test. The speedometer is tempting. I'm at nearly full throttle, and the speed is over 40 mph. A little bow-up trim (forward – careful now) and I hover at 45 mph. Almost perfectly smooth water – a day like this might not occur again soon. Only one small boat lies ahead and to my left, and it's barely moving. There should be little wake from that boat, so this is the perfect time to go for fifty. (This reminds me of a previous decade when I determinedly nursed a rented Mooney 201, considered a fast single-engine aircraft, to a speed of 201 knots during a screaming descent southbound over Jervis Inlet in perfectly smooth conditions.)

In a boat, 50 mph seems like a magic number. A little more throttle and one more click forward with my right thumb. She's still accelerating, and I hit 48 mph. Out the corner of my eye, I notice the wake from the boat ahead. How could that backwash come from such a small, slow boat?

But there's more to the situation, and I now notice the details too late. The small boat is a tug, and it's towing a huge mass of logs that trail behind it. Three primary factors determine wake: speed, hull design, and mass. The speed is slow, but it's a non-planing hull (as is the log load), and the mass is no longer tiny. In fact it's a giant load, and now I'm there.

For the first time in my life (hopefully, the last), I go completely airborne in a boat. The Hourston jumps the wake smoothly, and I hear the prop rev louder as it clears the water. I'm flying, although only a few feet above the water. But I'm not flying straight. The Hourston is rolling to the left, and I'm in the right seat with no additional weight to shift to that side. I give it some body English and a few choice words. The Hourston isn't going to roll on her side, but the boat will not be coming down level. I instinctively close the throttle (as I would in a similar situation in an airplane), but the landing is more of a "wham" than a "thump." I'm jarred hard into my seat, and the boat comes to an almost immediate stop. It's right side up, and we're floating. But did the "wham" cover up the "crack"?

I cut the ignition and listen. There's a lot of sloshing as the disturbed lake around me tries to resettle, but I hear no water gushing in. I stand and walk to the back of the boat and examine the results. There may be no hull damage, but all three cruise-a-day gas tanks have been flung from their storage well. One is upside down, its hose tangled with the neighboring tank. Both batteries have also exited their rear storage area, and one of them is similarly upside down. Fuel and sparks – I don't see any of either, but I quickly right the fuel tank and then examine the battery. One of the connecting cables has twisted so violently that the battery post has left the scene of the crime. I carefully turn the battery upright but decide not to touch the exposed post. Maybe John can fix it.

John can't fix the battery, but he does replace it. He isn't happy with my explanation of how I severed the battery post and nearly destroyed the boat. Neither am I.

* * * * *

Within six months, this boat and its almost-new Yamaha motor is in the ocean, the Hourston replaced by a new Campion on Powell Lake. I've coveted a bow rider for a full year, and take the plunge. I figure the Hourston and its Yamaha engine will be an excellent boat for the chuck. Several locals tell me the Hourston's small length is more of a "be careful" warning than an eliminating factor for the ocean. On good days, even a small tin boat can take you (not me!) to Campbell River. Of course, that's on a very good day. Unfortunately, my indoctrination to the ocean is on three good days. That provides a quorum toward future complacency.

The first day with the Hourston on the chuck is the most beautiful day imaginable. John takes Margy and me for an indoctrination ride. We cruise in nearly calm water to Lund and then up Thulin Passage, past the Copeland Islands, swinging around the final island and back via the outside passage. We see whales (maybe dolphins) farther out to sea, and I don't realize that the outside route is seldom this smooth. A seventeen-foot boat can handle this challenge well on a perfect day.

The second excursion is very controlled. Once again John is in charge, and he takes us on a tour of Desolation Sound, hitting every spot in the tourist book in a well-planned route. We step out of the choreography briefly to enter Toba Inlet. This is new to John too, and he wants to explore Toba. It starts to feel uncomfortable when the sea turns bright green as the glacial melt meets the warmer water. Now the surface is both green and suddenly frothy. We've obviously entered a new environment, and the wind is starting to pick up. We complete a mid-Toba logging camp stop, and begin our reverse route. But the turbulence does not decrease. In fact, it gets rougher as we swing south of Mink Island. John says we'll have to slip into Okeover Inlet, if things do not improve. One of his brothers from Powell River Taxi can retrieve us from there. I'm not seasick, but I am scared.

As we approach Okeover, the conditions suddenly change again. We're back in fairly smooth water. We round Sarah Point, stop for fuel at Lund, and make it home in time for dinner. Like flying, when the turbulence ends, you tend to forget how uncomfortable it was. It's best to remember.

My third boating experience on the chuck is with my friend David. He helps me ferry my Piper Arrow to Powell River in early June, stays a few days, and then we fly the Arrow to Vancouver for David's return home via Alaska Airlines. One day is devoted to the Hourston, and it turns out to be the perfect day.

I ask John to advise me, and he feels comfortable releasing me on my first ocean voyage without him. The chuck is smooth, and David and I charge over to Van Anda (Texada Island) and back without a hitch. Here's more proof that the chuck is the perfect place for the Hourston.

Then there's a surprise. I should have known that sudden surprises can erupt anytime on the ocean. The Toba trip was a strong hint.

One relatively calm day, John and I depart Westview Harbour for a fishing trip to the south. Rounding Grief Point, the waves build from nothing. One moment there's calm, and then there are 3-foot waves. We scoot into a protected bay near Scotch Fir Point, and fish in relative calm. But when it's time to come home, the waves are at John's limit for this boat (his limit is high). We're riding southeasterly swells now, and John is timing them perfectly with bursts of throttle, crest-to-crest. Still, it's obvious (even to me) that this is the limit for this boat. And that wave boundary developed from nothing in a matter of minutes. I too could be caught like this. Without John, I would be in over my head – maybe literally.

On the way home, John is close to calling it quits, and I'm game for beaching the boat and calling Powell River Taxi. But John doesn't want to run ashore (and possibly damage) a fiberglass boat under any conditions other than an absolute emergency, and there's no dock nearby. So we keep at it, riding the waves with sharp adjustments to the throttle under John's extraordinary seamanship. Then once again, we suddenly find favourable seas approaching Myrtle Rocks, and limp home to Westview Harbour. This time I don't forget the turbulence after it ends. It's time for a bigger boat.

Thus, another bum boat decision. A new engine, move the boat to the chuck, and then sell them both. As things turn out, John's own outboard engine on his boat throws a piston at about the same time as our overly memorable fishing trip. His boat's catamaran design requires an outboard leg of a different size than my Yamaha, so I sell him both the Hourston and the almost-new engine. That provides me part of the funds toward a bigger boat for the chuck, but this time I'll let John make the purchasing decisions. My boating judgments haven't resulted in a very good track record, so far. By the time he's finished, John finds us a boat for the chuck that will provide many years of enjoyment. He drives a hard bargain. Sellers love to see him coming, but they shake their heads and recount their money as he leaves.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 5

City-Folk

Bush pilots flying in the Arctic are adept at operational procedures necessary for survival in the northern environment. They accept these procedures as second nature.

My first encounter with these unique conditions was during a series of flights from Yellowknife in my Piper Arrow. Each day, the weather was evaluated, a new destination chosen, and off we'd go. I quickly learned to call ahead for fuel. Even at larger Arctic airports, fuel is stored in 55-gallon drums, since underground tanks become victims of the permafrost. Fortunately, the Arctic has joined the telecommunications age. Calling ahead to make arrangements for fuel is no longer difficult.

One day, departing for Cambridge Bay (picturesquely poised on the edge of the Arctic Ocean), I call ahead for fuel. The airport manager answers the phone and confirms that a 55-gallon drum of 100 octane can be arranged. He's standing by for my credit card number – another sign of the times. I know that I'll need only half of a drum, but it's all-or-none in such situations. In fact, once you pump your fuel, the drum with any remaining avgas is rolled over to the side of the parking apron and marked with your name. It's considered sacrilegious for anyone else to use your fuel drum, except in an emergency. At one airport, I offered the excess gas (after using less than half of the drum) to the native fuel attendant. He immediately declined, noting that he would get into big trouble with his boss if he accepted. After all, a true bush pilot caches fuel all over the Arctic, and only his name on the drum marks ownership. That mark is considered sacred – fuel is survival for these pilots.

After providing my credit card number to Cambridge Bay's airport manager, he inquires regarding the type of aircraft I'm flying. When I tell him it's a Piper Arrow, his reply is: "A what?"

"A Piper Arrow," I repeat.

There's a pregnant pause on the other end of the line.

"What in the world is a Piper Arrow?"

Arrows are not a common form of transportation in the Arctic. The slick, low-slung landing gear doors are not designed for rough runways. And nearly all aircraft are on floats in the Arctic. I can see that I'll have difficulty explaining why I'm flying this aircraft in such a remote region, so I offer a simple explanation:

"It's a city-folk airplane," I reply.

Once again a pause, and then the airport manager retorts with a sense of understanding.

"Ah, city-folk." No further explanation is needed.

Of course, now that I have fuel, I need to approach the problem of pumping it from the drum.

"Would it be possible for someone to assist me with pumping the gas from the drum? I'll need a hand-pump."

"A hand-pump? Son, let me get this straight. You're flyin' around the Arctic in this here Piper Arrow, and you don't even have a pump aboard?"

I cringe a bit, and then muster the courage to answer. My reply is simple:

"City-folk."

"Ah, city-folk." Now he understands.

After this incident, I learn that this coined phrase answers a lot of questions in remote regions. It also counters many awkward situations in Powell River. Stupid questions (yes, they do exist), bum decisions (usually harmless, sometimes not), and a multitude of sins can be covered up by a quick admission: "City-folk." Everyone seems to understand immediately.

One of the prime benefits of declaring yourself city-folk is that it's a nebulous way to avoid declaration of American citizenship. Often it's recognized (I wonder how?) that I'm not a local, so a common question involves where I live. When I'm elsewhere within British Columbia, I often proudly answer: "Powell River." That sometimes backfires.

At Squirrel Cove's cafe (Cortes Island), they're used to a few tourists, but not many. The waitress asks me: "Are you a local?" That might seem a bit forward, but she already knows the answer since well-known clientele frequent this cafe, so outsiders are easily identified.

My answer: "No, I'm from Powell River."

"Oh, do you know Tyler Davis?"

Oops, I guess I'm not really from Powell River.

When I'm in Powell River, sometimes the easiest answer is: "From the city." Like the concept of city-folk, this answer explains a lot, and the natural assumption is that I'm from the city that has the most in-fluence on Powell River – Vancouver. Of course, in the process, I'm not issuing a false statement. I am from the city, although not exactly Vancouver. Being identified as a Vancouver visitor puts me into a category that's easily understood by all. Admitting that I'm from Los Angeles is sometimes not wise.

John finds this verbal ammunition handy during the purchase of a boat for me. This particular boat isn't really for sale, but he's persistent. More accurately, the boat is already sold to someone else, but John changes the seller's mind.

After identifying this boat as the ideal equipment for me, he isn't going to take "No" for an answer. After traveling throughout the Sunshine Coast looking for the perfect boat, John's nearly daily phone calls to California are starting to register his frustration. He's working with a very limited budget (mine), and there are a lot of must-haves and should-haves on his list of purchase criteria. Matching them up to the limited availability of boats in my price range seems an impossible task, but John doesn't let up for a minute. He studies every issue of the local boat trading journals. That includes coverage of Vancouver Island, which means a lot of phone calls and a few discouraging ferry trips. What the ads say, what the voice on the phone states, and what the equipment really looks like are widely divergent. When you're chasing a budget limitation (imposed by me), you encounter a lot of junk.

One of John's best sources of leads are daily visits to Westview Harbour. He walks the docks, looking at boats and talking to the local boaters. He establishes a nearly daily dialog with the wharfinger. (I always address him as "Harbourmaster;" since he seems to prefer my American terminology.) Some boats are for sale, although not advertised. You are just supposed to know that Jack is willing to talk about the sale of his 26-foot Commander.

The boat that draws the focus of John's attention is a 23-foot Bayliner, vintage 1987, with classic lines, a command bridge (one of the must-haves), and a mid-time gas engine. (Diesel engines move reluctantly from John's must-haves to his should-have list in consideration of my budget.) Of course, this perfect boat is already sold to a customer in Victoria. But the boat hasn't been delivered yet, and John knows how to wheel-and-deal. Money talks, and John is pretty free with my money. Overbidding an already closed deal isn't beyond the ethical guidelines of used boat buying, according to John.

Thus, the Bayliner is nearly in the bag. There are some details still to be arranged, as John explains over the phone. The owner has overhauled this boat to John-like standards of workmanship, a big plus. But he isn't willing to let his pride-and-joy go to just anybody. John admits he's an agent for another customer, but he doesn't want to admit that the customer is an American. Among locals, this might nix the deal. Anything is fair in the trading of used boats. Thus, John uses the accepted tactic of declaring, when asked where I'm from: "He's from the city." No questions. Summer part-timers from Vancouver are reluctantly acceptable under Powell River standards.

Later, when the deal is finalized to the point of writing the check, John diplomatically announces, again over the phone, that I should make the check out to him rather than the seller. Since I'm from Vancouver, it would confuse things if a California address appears on the check. John will convert the funds at his end to keep everybody satisfied.

Several months later, after refueling the Bayliner in Lund, I'm sitting on the command bridge (a favourite relaxing location on this boat) making a cell phone call to California. A fellow yells up to me, right in the middle of my phone call: "Nice boat." It's the previous owner of the Bayliner, and I'm both thrilled and nervous. I have lots of questions about the boat, and he helps me identify some hidden circuit breakers and the intricacies of the fuel system. Fortunately, he never asks me about Vancouver.

* * * * *

On the lake, there are a variety of incidents that cause me embarrassment, usually explained with a simple clarification – "City-folk." Sometimes these exploits are related to my still-developing boating skills or the variety of water toys that I insist on accumulating.

My remote-control model Coast Guard cutter, two feet in length, plies the waters of Hole in the Wall, often exceeding its advertised 300-foot range. I build an ingenious dock for the cutter, attached to the transition float and guarded by floating rubber duckies. Sometimes the model boat tows a miniature raft, with or without purpose. I use the model boat (and raft) to deliver messages and assorted junk to John's Number 2 cabin on the opposite side of the bay, about 400 feet away. Of course, the payload has to be light.

Visitors to Hole in the Wall are relatively unannounced. Coming around the corner from First Narrows or appearing off the northern cliff, boats can be on top of you quickly if they elect to make the turn into the Hole. My Coast Guard cutter is relatively safe from collision, since local boaters are always on the lookout for floating obstacles. However, the model boat isn't always safe from the wakes of real boats, so the arrival of a real boat means retrieval of the model as quickly as possible. In such instances, coming home to the rubber duckies at full-throttle equates to a velocity of about one-half knot.

There's another reason to remove the model boat from the center of the channel as quickly as possible. It sports a tiny American flag that's an integral part of the remote control antenna. Who knows what an incoming Canadian boater might do to my U.S. cutter if they see that flag flying. American city-folk!

One morning when John arrives at Number 2, I greet him with a visit from the model cutter towing the miniature raft on which is mounted a walkie-talkie (an overgross tow). The model boat and raft get hung up on a log at John's breakwater entrance. I patiently wait for the cutter to drift free; gunning the twin-engines repeatedly in forward and reverse seems to only worsen the situation. After ignoring the model boat awhile, I try again. The boat breaks free of the log and is ready to continue to Number 2.

John hears the tiny twin motors coming (he misses nothing), as I lace the boat through its final docking turns. This maneuvering must be conducted in-the-blind, since John's log breakwater blocks my view of the cutter after it enters final approach at Number 2.

John reaches down from his float-to-shore bridge and retrieves the boat just as I hit the ring-button on my walkie-talkie. It takes John a few seconds to find the transmit button through the radio's waterproof bag.

"Hello, can you hear me?" he says, as if answering a phone.

"No, I can't hear you."

"Can you hear me now?"

"No, I still can't hear you."

Later that morning, I tune in the 11:30 edition of Telemarket on my AM radio as John and I work on our separate low-tension tasks at our respective cabins, Number 2 and Number 3. I place my walkie-talkie near the AM radio, push the transmit button, and treat my friend across the bay to a relayed edition of the morning's local used-item market. Neither of us purchases any of the bargains of the day, not even the used chainsaw.

* * * * *

One summer, my friend David assists me in ferrying the Piper Arrow to Powell River. I look forward to introducing him to this unique region, but I anticipate problems. He's used to the pace of the city, and float cabin life will be quite an adjustment. David doesn't like getting dirty, and that's hard to avoid in this environment. But getting clean is also easy, especially with the natural swimming pool and a propane-heated camp shower.

The shower provides a simple but major improvement to float cabin life. A large plastic tub is positioned at the edge of the deck, where it can be easily loaded with water, and a battery-driven pump is submerged in the tub. The pump feeds through a portable propane heater to a plastic shower spout that you hold over your head. Drainage is direct through the deck's open board joints, and water temperature is controlled by a knob on the heater. What luxury – a warm (even hot) shower right on the deck. With the shower positioned behind the cabin, there's no need for modesty.

Not surprisingly, David is immediately attracted to the apparatus. He takes at least one shower daily, but it's strange to watch him discreetly bathe in his swimming suit. In retort, I stride onto the deck butt-naked to give him the appropriate hint regarding float cabin standards of conduct. To bring the point home, I stroll to the nearby pee bucket on the deck, a convenience that David never uses (although the outhouse requires a climb up the cliff). David is true city-folk.

One morning, I decide to go fishing in my kayak, and David declines the invitation to accompany me. That's unusual, since he's always game for any of my suggestions, and he seems to like the kayak (and fishing). But I don't question his decision, particularly since the cabin is feeling a bit confined after several days together. Even friends need some space.

It takes only a few minutes to gather my gear, cram myself into the kayak (no graceful way to enter), and push off from the float. A maximum of five minutes elapses from the time I announce I'm going kayaking and the moment of launch. As I paddle away, I look back over my shoulder at the float. There stands David, already under the shower nozzle, bare-assed for the first time. He simply couldn't wait for me to leave and allow him a few moments of privacy. City-folk.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 6

Skookum

If there's one person who has taught me more in life than any other, it's John. Yet I've known him for only a few years, and most of that has been through occasional visits to Powell River.

In John's brain resides a complete map of the mountains, lakes, rivers, and valleys that surround Powell River. There are trails, waterfalls, and groves of trees in his mind that are on no other map.

When hiking or riding via ATV with him, it always amazes me how he feels his way through the remote landscape. Occasionally, he'll slow to a crawl, look in all directions as he absorbs the geography, and then points himself along the proper route. He's following a map within his mind, and it has few areas marked as "Unexplored."

One day I ask him to take me to someplace he has never been, since it often seems he's acting (graciously) as a tour guide for an American visitor. Wouldn't he like to go somewhere he hasn't journeyed previously, even if it isn't an exciting destination? But John notes, in reply, that he has been everywhere. This isn't a statement of arrogance. It's a fact. He's been everywhere that can be reached from Powell River without using a ferry or other ocean-going craft. The paved roads in the region are limited, but the forest roads and trails (including those unmarked) seem infinite. They are not. John has been everywhere

When he begins the process of acquainting me with the ocean, things open a bit more. There are actually places along the British Columbia coast that he hasn't visited. One autumn, I loan him my Bayliner to go anywhere he desires. I expect he'll explore quiet nooks, anchoring for some peaceful time, and visit a variety of places he has not previously seen. Maybe he'll run a few of the rapids to the north of Powell River. Instead, he chooses to load two motorcycles and a friend on the boat and rush nearly non-stop to the head of Toba Inlet, and then to the distant head of Bute Inlet, mooring to the logging camp booms in these remote locations. At both destinations, he and his friend drive their motorcycles on logging roads and trails, as far north into mountainous territory as they can go. It's a three-day marathon with hardly time to sleep. For John, it's an extension of the map in his mind.

* * * * *

I ask John to accompany Margy and me on a boat trip to Princess Louisa Inlet and Chatterbox Falls. It's a good thing he's with me, because the seas we encounter soon after departing Powell River are the roughest I've ever experienced (another example of how quickly things change on the ocean). By the time we reach Scotch Fir Point, we're experiencing waves at the limit of the Bayliner (which handles medium-sized waves nicely). With no dock in sight, John elects to follow a trawler, riding behind the larger boat's wake as it breaks the backs of the swells. This is an expert demonstration of timing (throttle-up for the crests, throttle-back for the troughs). These seas challenge even the trawler. We safely exit the wake behind the other boat as the waters calm near Hardy Island. Even John breathes a well-deserved sigh of relief.

Although the trip up Jervis Inlet to Malibu Rapids (the entry to Princess Louisa Inlet) is lengthy, John wants to deviate farther north up Queens Reach to the very end. The weather conditions are favourable, so we continue northward. Along the west side of the Reach are glaciated mountains that stretch skyward. I know that I'm looking at peaks that few humans have ever seen (except from the air). Then, as we approach the logging camp that marks the head of Jervis Inlet, John points to a huge mountain towering above all of the others.

"I've been there," he says, matter-of-factly.

How could he have been there? We're many miles from home, having traveled at an average boating speed of twenty knots for over 4 hours via the most direct route possible. John has never been to Queens Reach – he's told me so.

"That's Mount Alfred," remarks John. "We go there in our quads. The valley to the left is where we want to build a trail to the tip of Jervis Inlet."

Mount Alfred is accessible by land from the other side – the Powell River side. But if you look on a map, it's hard to imagine that you can even get to this towering peak by land. It's a very long way by logging road and remote trails. John has been there.

* * * * *

When I acquire a GPS with detailed contour maps of British Columbia, John isn't impressed. He enjoys the gadgetry, walking around the deck of my float cabin while watching the present-position symbol move and register a velocity of 2 knots. But the detail of the GPS chart is far less than the map in his brain. As John says: "It's sure missing a lot of trails."

I'd like to patent the map in John's mind. If I could only figure out how to wire his brain directly into a GPS receiver, I'd make a million.

John has an amazing tolerance for technology. Electronic communications and navigation fascinate him, although he needs neither for a complete existence. His preference is to rely on basic human skills that negate the need for technology of any kind.

I purchase a laser level for him at Christmas, thinking it will be the ideal gift for a fellow who engages in aquatic engineering (float cabin construction). In float maintenance, precise level benchmarks are essential.

He's thrilled with the laser level and plays with it as we sit near the Christmas tree, until he understands exactly how the mechanism operates. I doubt he has used it since.

An innate ability to tell time without a watch isn't common these days. John doesn't use a watch. It isn't that he doesn't own a watch – he simply doesn't use one. That's because he doesn't need one. The last time I saw his watch, it was hanging from the stick shift lever of his truck. It has since disappeared.

One day we're working on a boat maintenance project that's way too much effort for me. I suggest that we break for lunch. John notes that it's "kind of early to eat." Just for fun, I ask what time he thinks it is. His answer: "Almost 11:00." It's 10:51. Then I realize that John tells time by a variety of methods, comparing them for increased accuracy. In this instance, he doesn't use his common method of glancing at the sun. That's because his stomach tells him it's not quite time for lunch.

He ignores most aspects of time as best he can. One day, John is at my cabin, but is worried about a construction project back in town that he feels responsible to finish that day. Finally, he says: "What time is it? About 1:00?" I glance at my watch – it's 12:50. Of course, we've just finished lunch, so where's the challenge?

* * * * *

My vocabulary has changed because of my association with John. I've always enjoyed nicknames for common objects in my life. He's an expert at this and has a nickname for almost everything.

My first captured decorative stump receives its name as we tow it from John's Number 2 cabin across the bay. The stump is immediately christened "Elephant Butt," and it now bobs happily tied to the cliff in back of my cabin. It really does look like an elephant butt.

The origin of nicknames is sometimes hard to determine. Even John doesn't know whether he invented these phrases or they were handed down to him. There are lots of British Columbian expressions that intervene. Cute little diving ducks (fish-eating ducks) are designated KMAs in conversations with John's dad, who is a unique character unto himself. When they dive for fish, they bob down quickly, revealing their feathered tails; thus, their designation as KMAs (Kiss-My-Ass).

To John, many people, places, and processes have nicknames. His dog eats "worms" (because the dog food is shaped that way), and anything strong is "skookum" (as are the Skookumchuck Rapids). The term "pecker poles" is BC slang, but it's John who introduces me to the proper use of this phrase. I hear the expression first in conversation with him involving small trees that are logged for financial gain in areas where old growth trees, or even second growth, are not available. More than one landowner has purchased real estate for the lumber that exists on the property, harvested the pecker poles, and sold them for profit. To see the landscape ravaged in this way is a major concern to the locals. On private property, there's currently no way to prevent this practice.

* * * * *

"I don't work."

I hear John say this when I'm with him, and my blood pressure instantly increases. Sometimes he phrases it differently: "I don't have a job." Either way he says this, it makes me mad.

The work ethic in this part of British Columbia has to be experienced to be understood. I understand it; yet I'm an outsider. It's not uncommon to find talented locals who don't have a formal job. Of course, economic factors cause some of this, and a town that relies on a paper mill in the 21st century is prone to economic disaster. The unemployment rate is high here, but job availability doesn't drive John's situation. His ambitions in life are simply different from city-folk.

He worked for a brief period at the local paper mill. Not surprising, that didn't last long. Traditional work and structured hours are not where he shines. There are lots of jobs that John could do, and he'd do them well. But it just wouldn't be John. Instead, he needs to live in a world where he can let his originality roam. He works a multitude of jobs, each for a limited span of time. That's the work environment where he gleams.

John builds and maintains. He does both to perfection, and he works at a variety of tasks that redefines the term "odd jobs." He has installed rock walls at the ferry terminal, replaced wood-rotted structural beams in porches, assisted in building a millionaire's dream home on the chuck, and rebuilt the public path around Inland Lake. And that only indicates his for-hire work. Probably most remarkable of all is his nearly single-handed construction or refurbishment of at least four float cabins, depending how you count. No one works harder or with more talent than John.

Sometimes his friends kid him about his lack-of-job status. John takes it well, never protesting their banter. That, of course, encourages them to keep right on teasing. It makes me mad, maybe because he takes it so well.

One sparkling sunny day, I ride with him and his brother, Rick, to the end of a steep trail where a hiking path begins for the final climb to the top of Tin Hat Mountain. It's been quite a ride for me, and we haven't seen another quad or motorcycle all day. But when we enter the end-of-trail turnaround, we find a yellow quad. We inspect it closely, since it's the exact 400 cc model that I crave. (Later John changes my mind when he explains to me, as usual, what I really want.)

We begin our hike up the path to the peak, and discover the top of the mountain is already occupied (no surprise). It's obvious to all of us that our space has been invaded. For the guy who hiked from his yellow quad, that's probably particularly true, but John, Rick, and I act like we own the mountain. It's a bit awkward for a few moments, but then we start to talk. We're all wilderness riders, and there's a common bond.

I'm surprised that John doesn't know this fellow, since he seems to know everybody in this area. (Later, in a completely different setting, John becomes good friends with Ernie. Nearly a decade after that, I meet Ernie during a time when I need help on the lake. He's a logger with vast professional experience, and one of the most knowledgable cabin owners on the lake – a fellow whom I respect tremendously.)

We talk about the journey up the trail, and I ask the rider of the yellow ATV about his quad.

"You've got a nice bike," I say. "How do you like it?"

"It's a great machine," he replies. "It has adequate power – will take me anywhere I want to go. I bought it less than two years ago, and I've already put almost 2000 klicks on the odometer."

"Powerful," I think to myself. He doesn't know that John drives a 660 cc quad. By comparison, this bike is a wimp (but I still prefer the design), and although 2000 klicks in this country is quite a few (klicks click slowly on mountain trails), I know this isn't even close to John's accumulation of miles.

"I've put 17,000 clicks on mine in the past two years," say John nonchalantly.

"No way!" says the yellow quad rider. "Where do you get time off like that?"

"I don't work," says John. His tone isn't uneasy or apologetic. It's just John's casual manner.

"Oh, that explains that," says Mr. Yellow. "It must be nice."

He doesn't say this with even a hint of of spite. Instead, it's said as an expression of envy. (Later I learn what a hard worker Ernie is, and I become a big fan of his attitudes and natural charisma. No one is more caring than him. Just ask a famous man of the lake named Fritz, whose extended presence on Powell Lake can be credited to Ernie.)

I'm aggravated with John's words more than I'm concerned with those of Ernie. John does work -- and harder than anyone I know. It's just not the traditional version of work. I want to intervene and say something, but I let it go.

On the hike down the hill, John and I are alone, with Rick and the yellow quad driver far ahead of us. I try to express myself.

"John, that conversation with Mr. Yellow made me mad."

John glances at me as if I'm once again off on one of my tangents. Then he strides ahead of me, seemingly ignoring my comments.

I yell ahead to John: "That fellow probably has a job doing mundane tasks until he retires, never experiencing or really doing anything.." (So little do I know.) "You should have answered him differently."

"What do you mean?" John hollers back over his shoulder. "It's no big deal."

"Yes, it's a big deal. At least to me," I say, finally catching up to him. I'm still mad, but I don't want John to think I'm mad at him.

"Here's what I think you should do," I say. "You have lots of jobs, and you work harder than anyone I've ever known. I think you should start telling people you have a job."

"But I don't," he replies. "Nobody understands how I can survive without a job. It's only because I live with my folks that it works out."

"But you have lots of jobs, and I think you should change your answer next time," I suggest.

"Like what?" John replies.

"You're a private contractor. That's what you are. It describes you perfectly. Or better yet, you're an aquatic engineer."

"I like that," he says. "You're right, I'm a private contractor."

"Well, that's what you should say the next time they ask," I announce with some fortitude. "At least that's what you better say the next time you're with me."

There's silence for several minutes as we continue the climb downward. I hope I haven't overstepped my bounds.

"Hey, Wayne, did you hear how proud he was of his quad?"

"I sure did. And you know how much I like that model. But I bet he's reached our parking spot down there by now. I wonder if he'll be a bit embarrassed when he sees your big quad?"

John laughs, and we continue the rest of the way down the path in silence. Both of us know what John really is – he's an aquatic engineer. But few would understand.

* * * * *

John can build or repair absolutely anything. I ask him to design and build a solar electrical system at my cabin to power lights and recharge my satellite phone, computer, and other city-folk gadgets. I give John the general specifications and leave it to him to fill in the details. Electricity is probably his weakest mechanical area, but even here he excels. When I return to the cabin on my next visit, the system is fully operational, including sockets in the wall (all at convenient locations), low energy light bulbs, and an electrical control panel that's simple, reliable, and easy to understand. He uses some off-the-shelf hardware and a lot of innovation. I browse through the electrical inverter manual (Greek to me) that he has left on the table and notice that he has underlined a lot of the key instructions, backing up the installation as he goes along to assure that all electrical components are double-checked. Check and double-check – that's John.

* * * * *

I brag to my friend David on-and-on about John. I look forward to him meeting John during his visit to Canada. I know John will impress David, even beyond my bragging. David appreciates ingenuity, intelligence, and a sense of humor. John displays all three. Because we choose our own friends, it's not surprising that David and John have similar traits. Some of the uniqueness in David (a student and friend for over twenty years) is evident in John. Both have the unique trait of remembering endless details, to the extent that you wonder how their brain can find room for more. David remembers every tail number of every aircraft he has ever flown. He has over 7000 hours of flight time and has flown several hundred airplanes. He remembers each one and calls these aircraft to my attention when we see them (or hear them on an air traffic control frequency) during our flights throughout the Los Angeles area.

Both David and John also share the trait of being everywhere. That is, they can find you wherever you go. There's no hiding from either of them.

These two individuals meet on the day David and I arrive in Powell River. We're hastily preparing to depart from the Shinglemill dock for the float cabin. David and I have flown my Piper Arrow from California (an all-day process), and we want to get to the float before dark. I turn around, and there's John – he's everywhere.

Our greetings are brief. It's amazing that John found us at this instant in time, although he routinely tracks me down whenever he's looking for me. David and John shake hands, and we push off for Hole in the Wall.

Within moments of setting foot on the float, we face a crisis. During the coming-aboard process, I always make a quick walk-around to enjoy the familiar sights as well as any changes. Sometimes, as I circle the float deck, I also detect a problem. On this occasion, I find a wasp nest lodged under the front porch eaves. It's impossible to avoid the area when entering and leaving the cabin door, and wasps are swarming the nest waiting for a tasty American to bite.

I immediately decide on a plan of attack. I enter the cabin, grab a kayak paddle, and return to the deck to use the paddle as a scraper to pull the paper nest from the eaves. Once it hits the deck, I plan to shove it over the side of the float and into the water. Then I stop short.

What kind of teamwork is this? I'm completely ignoring David in my decision. Although I'm pretty sure he'll concur with my course of action, it would be courteous to at least consult him. It may be my cabin, but we're both part of this week's adventure. I particularly look forward to seeing David catch some trout (he does), remembering a previous camping trip to interior British Columbia when David accompanied me on a visit to Chilco Lake. We had fished for two days, and David finally caught a tiny trout. It was about six inches long, but he insisted on having his picture taken with his prize catch.

So, paddle in hand, I call for David to join me on the front porch. He's exploring the other side of the float, but comes to the front of the cabin immediately. I point to the wasp nest. By now the swarming activity has increased; there's American meat in the area.

"What do you think we should do?" I ask.

David inspects the swarming wasps, takes a few steps backwards, and speaks his mind.

"I think we should wait until tomorrow, and then call John."

I guess I somewhat over-advertised John's capabilities.

It turns out that my paddle method is effective. I swipe a clean blow to the nest, sweeping it quickly overboard. An hour later, wasps on cross-country flights come home to find their house missing. Then I too wish I had called John.

* * * * *

I often refer to John as my Canadian agent, and that's an apt description. He handles absolutely everything in my absence. He maintains a variety of equipment for me, checks the mailbox, cruises to the float cabin after every storm, and periodically starts the car and boat engines to assure the batteries remain charged. He constantly keeps me informed of maintenance items and advises me when he thinks something should be adjusted or improved. It seems he never comes up with an idea that's not worth pursuing, and his thoughts flow continuously. He even puts up with my ideas, which are often not worth serious consideration. He's a good listener and the ideal proactive agent for an American in Canadian paradise.

Most important of all, he's my friend. What more could I ask? How about an automated conveyor belt to shuttle firewood down from the shed? (John is already working on a pulley-driven firewood float instead.)

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 7

Chippewa Bay Cabin Buster

How could I get so stupid so quickly? Certainly, this is no place to be tonight. I can see the headline in the local newspaper: "Boater Missing on Powell Lake." The rest of the newspaper article goes on to outline how this relatively unknown American launched from the Shinglemill dock near sunset on Monday during a developing north wind.

The few locals who knew the missing man note that he loved the lake, but was relatively new to the region. He possessed little boating experience, and probably didn't understand the hazards of this lake at night. Errant logs had pushed south from the Head during a recent March storm, so collision hazards may have played a role in the American's disappearance. Reports indicate that the 18-foot bow rider was brand new, purchased earlier that same day in Port Alberni and trailered to Powell Lake with help from a friend, using the Comox ferry for the last leg of the trip. Mysterious circumstances: Why would this inexperienced boater purchase a bow rider in Port Alberni and then depart up the lake at night in bad weather?

The newspaper article would struggle for quotes from those who knew the American: "He really didn't know boats," says his friend John. "I helped him trailer it back with my sister's truck. He thought he could pull it with his old Ford Tempo, but I convinced him that was suicide."

Maybe this is suicide. John helped me launch at the south end of the lake a half hour ago. During the boat's purchase at Port Alberni, I insisted that John test-drive the new bow rider. What do I know about boats anyway? John wheeled the Campion stern-drive in high-speed circles and reported that it handled terrific – no cavitation on those dual counter-rotating props even in tight turns. But he wasn't impressed with my Internet purchase. Had I really thought about those dual props? And what about fuel consumption? Answer: Of course not.

That was one of the few times that John remained silent while I hung myself. I guess he didn't feel he knew me well enough. Since then, he has spoken up as soon as I come up with stupid ideas. And now I always listen to him for advice, but it was a slow learning process.

On the trip home from Port Alberni, we stayed with the boat below the ferry deck, primarily because John's dog, Bro, was with us. I was proud to greet an admirer eyeballing my new boat during the ferry ride, and he seemed to know this kind of equipment, proving the wisdom of my purchase. This fellow was particularly impressed with the dual props, the blades gleaming in the stark lighting of the bowels of the Queen of Burnaby. He did note, however, that one problem with dual props involves boating in areas with lots of flotsam to jam between the counter-rotating propellers. In such instances, the drive shaft could immediately be destroyed. I decided not to mention that this boat was destined for Powell Lake, flotsam capital of the world.

I also soon learn there's no way to slow the dual props to a crawl when approaching a dock. Just keep on driving – a rule-of-thumb for an amateur like me that leads to a lot of scrapes and profanity during the docking process over the next few months.

This evening, on the southern finger of Powell Lake, the newness of the boat is wearing off fast. The waves have whitecaps pushed by strong winds from the north, and that's the direction I'm heading. My float cabin isn't far away, less than four miles remain, but the wind-swept waves have developed very suddenly.

Leaving the Shinglemill nearly an hour ago, John waved me away after launching the new boat from its trailer. Although he warned me about the typical trailer launching errors, I immediately tried to start the engine with the stern-drive leg still raised. The overwhelming noise of the prop whirling in the air got my attention, but not before the locals, drinking beer in the pub overlooking the docks, witnessed an amateur in action. (Maybe they'll be quoted in the newspaper too.)

I quickly lowered the leg (throttle thumb-switch) and glanced back at John, who was shaking his head in horror. Nothing bothers him more than equipment abuse, and he sees a lot of it from me. But certainly, he wouldn't send me off into approaching darkness with a new boat that could kill me. Or would he? What do I really know about John anyway? He has a nice dog.

For the first few miles, it's a piece of cake. But darkness is waging stiff competition after that long haul from Port Alberni, and this boat is completely foreign to me. I should have at least sat in the driver's seat in Port Alberni. Yet I feel relatively comfortable in this (to me) big boat.

The complete blue canvas package is installed – the cabin is completely enclosed. The plastic windows to the sides and rear distort my view. I can't see well in any direction except straight ahead. But the steady rain makes the canvas covering a reasonable decision. In fact, the rain is starting to become a real problem.

Seeing straight ahead is increasingly difficult. There was a minor lack of communication during the Internet purchase of this boat regarding the equipment list, and the all-essential windshield wiper is missing. The boat is now plowing into heavy waves, water splashing over the bow onto the windshield, further reducing the already low visibility.

John explained this type of storm to me months ago. He calls them CB CB'ers – Chippewa Bay Cabin Busters. The winds blow strong from Chippewa (northwest of my current position), across several miles of open water. The east shore of the lower lake (current location of an American in a new bow rider) is ravaged by the winds and accompanying waves. Float cabins on the lower east shoreline are directly in the path of devastation.

This is my first CB CB'er, and it's on my first night trip on this lake. And this is a brand new boat. And, just to increase my tension a bit further, the worst is straight ahead – the confluence of lower Powell Lake with First Narrows and Chippewa Bay. The north wind blows downslope across Chippewa, with nothing to stop the blast except float cabins and Americans in Campion bow riders. John refers to this area of the lake as the North Sea, an apt thought tonight.

The east shore of the lower lake is almost always the tranquil side. This is normally the route to take, unless the water is dead calm. The lack of cabins on the west shore is evidence of this weather trend. But when CB CB'ers blow, there are few safe spots on the lower lake. The east shore takes the direct blast.

Being alone on this lake at night reminds me of flight in the clouds. Flying is a very exact (and safe) science, but everything seems more challenging when you're alone in the clouds. Even a non-pilot in the other seat adds to the sense of safety. There are times alone in the clouds when it's easy to question your sanity. Why would a logical human being accept this act of defiance, regardless of level of experience? Hurtling through a cloud in a metal vessel at three times highway speed makes little sense. The same holds true tonight. Alone in this boat at night, in this storm, is very alone.

The waves have about three miles to build from the head of Chippewa Bay, and I estimate their height here as three feet, but what do I know about waves? I know that this lake is large enough to form wind waves that are too big for this boat.

Darkness makes the waves seem even bigger. My docking lights illuminate the crests as they crash across the bow. I consider turning the lights off, to prevent viewing this power of nature. There's little danger of collision with other boats, so the lights are of little value in that respect. Experienced local boaters are at home in front of their televisions tonight, and the logging crew boats (with the luxury of radar and all-weather hulls) are done for the day. But I leave the docking lights on – there's plenty of flotsam for my dual props, and maybe I'll see it before I hit it.

I unzip the blue overhead canvas panel and flop open the walk-through windshield so that I can stand and see the waves ahead without interference from the glass. I've seen John do this. In fact, he drives more standing than sitting, especially in tight situations.

I meet the waves head-on, and that seems best. But it also results in labourious forward progress. It's now so dark that I need my glasses, but they don't have windshield wipers either. As soon as my glasses encounter the rain through the overhead hatch, they are splattered with water and fog up instantly, so I pull them off and put them in my pocket.

It's getting noticeably colder as the March darkness sets in. I weighed some of the effects of the darkness and cold before launching. The moon is nearly full, a favourable factor that I proudly considered during the evening launch. However, total cloud cover completely negates that major benefit.

In my considerations, I didn't properly evaluate the effects of the wind and wiperless rain. This lake is to be respected after dark on the best of nights, and during storms there are floating logs that spontaneously generate. They are hidden in the troughs of the waves during rough water like tonight. My thoughts turn to the dual props. I wonder if my insurance covers the props and driveshaft. I wonder if I even have insurance.

By the time the biggest waves begin to flow from the mouth of Chippewa Bay, I'm well past John's oldest cabin (the address he calls Number 1). I could have tied up there at a familiar dock and spent the night in safety, but the waves didn't seem so big then. Plus, I really want to get to my cabin at Hole in the Wall tonight. Pilots have a name for this – it's called get-home-itis. Mountains and valleys are strewn with wreckage from this common pilot disease. Much of that wreckage occurs suddenly in the dark.

Hole in the Wall isn't very far past Chippewa Bay, and turning back to John's cabin seems out of the question. I wonder if turning around and running with the waves is easier or worse? (I later learn that travel in following seas improves handling for this V-hull design and obviously speeds forward progress.) Hugging the shore, I don't want to turn this boat around tonight, with logs and hidden snags seemingly everywhere. Nor do I like the thought of turning broadside to these waves, even momentarily, during a course reversal.

There are land cabins immediately to my right. I could find shelter there – some are probably unlocked. Just being on shore would be a relief. That is, if I don't demolish the boat making landfall in the dark in an area that's littered with killer obstacles. At least I'm wearing my life vest. I'd last a few minutes in the frigid water, deeper than Loch Ness.

I think through the scenario of going to shore at one of these nearby cabin docks. Docking is something I haven't done yet in this boat, and I'm not confident the Campion will survive my docking efforts in these conditions.

I recognize the luxurious land cabin on the island to my right that marks the last structure before the open stretch of water leading to First Narrows. There's usually a large Canadian flag flying there, but the cabin is dark tonight.

I'm eager for the green flashing light that marks the west side of the Narrows, but the rain is too heavy and the visibility too low to see it. I continue northward at near-idle, wondering if I should try meeting these waves at a faster speed. I throttle up slightly, and all seems instantly worse. I reduce power to the previous setting, and the blasts of water over the bow decrease, but my forward progress is only a crawl. The last cabin slips behind me. I'm in the open water.

I entertain one more thought of turning around, since I know that Henderson Bay juts back to my right. It will slide farther behind if I proceed, but I can still make a hard right turn (150 degrees) and slip into the bay. There are many cabins in Henderson Bay, but the normally-sheltered area is oriented nearly directly in line with Chippewa, so the waves will be large tonight. And turning into Henderson will mean turning downwind. In an airplane, that can be deadly, since stall-spin accidents are common during such turns at low altitudes, with visual references that cause pilots to slow unsafely as the groundspeed increases during the turn. Airplanes fly by airspeed alone, not groundspeed. What about boats in rolling waves?

There are so many things familiar to me from flying. Boating and flying, in fact, have so much in common that the transition seems too easy. Navigation, weather, air (water) flow, mechanical systems, and safety – all possess similarities. But the transition tonight isn't working very well. How could I get so stupid so quickly?

Where's the portable spotlight? It plugs into the DC socket, and I can see the receptacle directly in front of me. Rain is spraying down through the overhead canvas hatch and through the open windshield. It soaks my jacket and pants. They are not waterproof, so now I'm simultaneously wet, cold, scared, and exhausted.

I'm wearing my life vest, and that's a plus. How many boaters actually wear their life vests? Answer: Not many. They feel they can put it on quickly during an emergency. How many emergencies provide time to don a life vest in advance? Answer: Very few. An accident in Oregon in 2003 killed nearly all aboard a whale tour boat that launched from a tricky ocean harbour during a developing storm. The few passengers wearing life vests were saved. Those without drowned. No surprise – the boat's captain was one of those who drowned without his vest.

Related things to think about right now: Life vests should be purchased for their heavy-duty flotation properties, and a bright colour helps find you in the waves. Of course, my tightly zipped vest is very sporty – olive green (practically invisible at night) and so thin and comfortable that I doubt it would keep me afloat. My body will be very stylish when it's found washed up on the rocky shore.

The portable spotlight is in the cloth bag somewhere behind me. I reach back, groping in the dark. Nothing. I'm tempted to shift the engine into neutral, and then scurry to the back of the boat to find the bag. But I must remain headed into these waves – this much I know. I'm not sure I'll survive sideways in these troughs.

The waves are growing ever larger. The bow thrusts up and then crashes down with a major whack, and water sprays through the open windshield, the overhead hatch, and all over me. I can't reduce speed even a little without losing my forward progress. Should I go faster? I'm hardly moving, but the waves are already crashing over the bow.

It's certain now: I should not be here. I'm way over my head (too literal to laugh). Who would even know I'm missing? Only John.

There's a faint green flashing light ahead, slightly to my left. But it's moving all over the place (must be the waves). Red-right-returning. I wonder if I'm returning? Up-lake, in this case, must mean I'm returning – maybe. So a green light on the left is good.

There are no other lights, except the flashing green beacon, in any direction. Wait, there's a dimly flashing white light on the small inland slipping behind me to the left. The rain seems even worse in that direction, so maybe I'm closer to that island (Cassiar Island) and the white light than I think. So what does a flashing white light mean?

I know the green light. It sits on a rocky bluff just after the sandy beach and just before Hole in the Wall. The white light means I'm past Cassiar Island and its numerous snags. Maybe.

That puts me into the wide area just south of First Narrows – the North Sea. There's nothing to hit here – except floating logs, of course. This water is nearly a thousand feet deep, and wind waves are unhindered by the wide-open expanses in all directions. Even with light winds, this area is usually chopped by swirling flows from all points of the compass. Tonight it's a torrent. The rain is even heavier now – pouring, to be more precise. And it's very dark.

This lake is an ancient fjord, once connected to the ocean at the south end. The depths are enormous. (It's not a pleasant night to think about that!) The water below me goes so far down that there's evidence of prehistoric salt water near the bottom. I've plumbed the bottom near my float cabin using a fishing line and sinker. Even at the corner of my cabin deck closest to shore (twenty feet from the rock wall), the depth is over fifty feet. The lake bottom drops off from the shore in a nearly vertical descent at practically all locations. I bought an anchor for my previous boat because it's on the Canadian Coast Guard's recommended equipment list, and John laughed: "What do you plan to do with that? You'll need at least 500 feet of rope to reach bottom almost anywhere."

Suddenly, the weather starts to get better. It could be my imagination. No, it's really getting better. The waves are noticeably smaller, barely whitecaps. The protection of the headlands is becoming a factor (good ol' Goat Island, known to me as Goat Mountain). The rain is letting up, and I can see again. I pull my smeared glasses from my pocket, wipe them off (on my wet jacket cuff), put them on, and discover an instant total fog. Back in my pocket they go.

There's a float cabin ahead and slightly to the right. I know that one. The flashing green light is clearly to my left, and even in the dark, I can see the light-coloured sand of the beach (one of the few on this lake) on the left side of the boat. I'm home, or almost so.

Over the next mile, the waves dwindle away to almost nothing, and I'm able to add throttle for normal cruise. First Narrows is nearly calm in comparison to what is behind me. Hole in the Wall is so placid that the biggest danger is hitting the floating pieces of wood caught in the stillness.

Entering the Hole, I pull the throttle back to idle and wait for the boat to decelerate. It's noticeably quieter under these calm conditions at this low RPM, and that relaxes my heart. I shift into neutral, slip to the back of the boat, find the spotlight in the bag, and plug it in. Light is directed wherever I desire. No longer is the darkness in command. I scan across the Hole, identifying floating obstacles that I'll need to avoid. I'm in charge again.

Small logs and sticks float everywhere, but I can proceed safely through the calm water. Slow forward. No shore lights anywhere, but my spotlight reflects suddenly bright against my cabin's sliding glass door nearly straight ahead. I hold the spotlight there. The bright reflection calms me. I pull the throttle back to idle again, and then switch into neutral about 100 feet offshore from the log breakwater that marks my cabin entrance. Ignition off. I'm not docked, but that's a less concerning prospect now that I'm safely in the confines of the calm Hole.

The engine blower is still on – I forgot to turn it off nearly an hour ago when leaving the Shinglemill. I switch the blower off, and there's total silence. My navigation and docking lights are bright in the darkness, but the quiet is all encompassing. Like flying, when you're struggling in turbulence, smooth air seems incomprehensible. During those moments of rough air, it seems that you've never previously encountered calm conditions. But when you again find smooth skies, you wonder why you were so scared by the turbulence.

It's calm now, and all the terror is behind me. But the power of this environment lurks in the background – always there, always to be respected.

I savor the moment, for all is well. I am home.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 8

Critters

Living in this region, it's appropriate to own a dog. Everyone seems to have one, although that's a tough adjustment for a cat guy. But dog ownership poses complications imposed by my part-time status in Canada, so I take the only logical solution to not owning a dog. I rent one.

The rental limitations include "accompanied-by-owner." But if the owner (John) is always around anyway, that solves that. Bro is the nicest fellow you'll ever meet. I'm sure that all dog owners say that, so why should praise not extend to renters?

Bro goes everywhere with John. No, I don't just mean everywhere in a minor sense. Bro goes everywhere, or John doesn't go. It's amazing how few exceptions are necessary. Bro goes in the truck, Bro goes in the boat, Bro goes in his comfy box on the back of the quad. Bro couldn't go on John's motorcycle (one of those exceptions), which explains why there's no more motorcycle.

Bro is a bit rotund (heavy, chunky, stocky, obese), but eating with John can do that to a guy. He has to be hoisted into his open-box seat on the rear of the quad. You really can't lift Bro that high, but you can give him a hefty ass-push to assist. Since John hikes a lot, there's an occasional delay as Bro is pushed by the rump the last few feet of the climb to Beta Lake. The same procedure is used going up a vertical cliff ladder that Bro confronts at Number 2 to assist his owner in clearing the trail above the cabin.

Bro's quad box has been redesigned several times to assure that he rides in comfort. He still bounces around a lot on rough trails, but he has a viewing ledge on the side of the open box so he can rest his chin in comfort as the mountain scenery goes by in less bumpy conditions.

Bro loves sardines, so a gross collection of empty sardine cans decorates Number 1, his favourite float cabin. On a fishing trip, there's no need to worry about the fish heads after the catch has been cleaned. Bro takes care of that detail too. But his most endearing characteristic is his greeting for absolutely every human being he knows. He runs around in circles like a madman the moment he sees you. Maybe you have some sardines.

This dog lives on docks throughout the Sunshine Coast, or so it seems. Boat rides are not his favourite thing, but living with John makes this mode of transportation a constant necessity. Docks, on the other hand, are one of his favourite places. Every marina requires dogs to be on a leash at all times. John makes liberal exceptions.

As soon as Bro enters the marina gate, he runs frantically down the dock to his boat. He always remembers what dock he's on and what finger holds his vessel. But as he makes that first skidding turn off the main dock, he always comes to a screeching halt, squats, and poops before continuing. John traditionally exclaims: "Oh, no, not again!" Then John finds the dock hose to wash it off. Often, Bro squats right near a hose to assist with the cleanup.

* * * * *

One evening, traveling in John's truck on Goat Main, we round a bend and confront two dogs running full speed side-by-side in the middle of the road. John stops his truck in plenty of time, and the dogs stop too. But it catches me by surprise. John is very upset to see these dogs, and he correctly predicts that the owner's vehicle will be coming down the road behind the dogs in a few seconds.

The pickup truck appears on schedule, and there's a moment of confusion while the owner tries to get the dogs off the road so we can proceed. This is a common practice – running dogs for exercise on forest roads, following them (or leading them) in your vehicle. But forest roads have a lot of blind curves. Bro isn't John's first dog. Before Brody, there was Cody, who died under the wheels of John's own truck. I know John well enough to imagine his self-torture. Those memories come back to him that evening on Goat Main.

* * * * *

Mountain bikes are aboard my bow rider as John, Bro, and I plow north towards Olsen's Landing. The bikes fit in my boat easily, with plenty of room for Bro and me to relax in the sun-drenched bow while John drives.

The 3-mile climb to Olsen's Lake (officially designated as "Olsen Lake") from the logging dock is a lot easier with bikes than on foot. But it's still near-torture. The trail to the mountain lake is a gradual but persistent climb. Bro keeps up with us, panting heavily, as we pedal progressively slower in the uphill push. Along the way, there's considerable evidence of bear activity, including trampled salmonberry bushes along the side of the road.

Our stay at Olsen's Lake is brief, but long enough for lunch and an almost-nap as John and I rest flat on our backs on a log near the shore. It's a clear day, and the high altitude sun radiates deep into us. As we cat-nap, Bro splashes for frogs at the lake's edge.

The return trip is a joy, gravity making this choice of transportation finally worth the effort. Bro isn't a fast runner downhill on a rocky road, but the bikes handle it fine. I ride ahead of John (who is keeping a slower pace with Bro), and I'm traveling just a little faster than justified for the conditions. In a few minutes I'm well out in front, enjoying the opportunity of being momentarily alone in the forest.

As I round a corner, a black bear cub stands on the left side of the road, transfixed by the sight of a human on a bicycle. It's probably the first person he has ever seen, and what a sight I must be on this nearly out of control vehicle, now braking hard in a cloud of dust. The cub is as cute as they come, and hesitates a moment before bounding across the road in front of me. I'm still focused on the cub as it enters the small clearing on the other side of the road. Nature has provided me the perfect view in a forest cluttered almost everywhere by trees and shrubs – but not here. What luck.

I'm perched on my bike at nearly the exact spot where the cub has crossed the road. So now the cub is on one side of the road, I'm in the center of the road, and...

Wherever you find a cub (they say), you can expect momma bear to be close at hand. And never (they say) separate a cub from its mother.

Momma appears immediately to my left, thrashing the bushes at the shoulder of the road, staring at me, or maybe staring at her cub on the other side of me. It's a very intense stare. Then I hear Bro.

I don't know how Bro caught up with me so fast. It must be his nose for bears, because he's now furiously barking his way down the incline and is obviously (bark, bark, bark!) right around the corner. When he rounds the bend, he's traveling at a speed I've never seen his chubby body muster previously. Momma doesn't hesitate an instant longer. She accelerates across the road, missing me by only a few metres.

The cub isn't very pleased about Bro either. The small bear scoots up the nearest tree, and Mamma claws her way up behind her cub. The cub stops about 5 metres up the tree, and mamma bear stops within swiping distance of the ground. She immediately has something to swipe at. Bro barks himself into a fit, jumping at the base of the tree, leaping nearly vertically, trying to attack the bear. This is obviously not a healthy approach to the situation.

Finally, John comes around the corner, pedaling frantically. He's yelling at Bro, and now focuses his attention on the tree. Bro actually listens to the voice of reason (hesitantly, and just a little) and begins his retreat from the tree, still barking his fool head off. Momma and the cub use the retreat as an opportunity to quickly leap down to the ground (they shimmy down a short distance, and then jump), and disappear quickly into the forest. Nice bear hunting, Bro. You're lucky you're still alive.

Of course, I do wonder what would have happened to me if Bro had not appeared on the scene.

* * * * *

On my first visit to Powell River, I go to the Visitor Info Centre for some hiking maps. The helpful girl behind the counter points out some particularly scenic trails, but she notes that a tourist reported a bear on one of the local paths the previous day. That's enough for me; that trail will be avoided (and is). But thinking back, I now recognize there are lots of bear sightings every day, but only tourists report them. Bears are a common part of the environment, and seldom do incidents involve injuries to humans. Black bears are the standard species in this region, and they are at least as afraid of us as we are of them. Generally, a black bear can be expected to retreat from human contact as quickly as it can.

One of the best defenses is noise, so you'll find me thrashing through the trails when I'm alone. When I'm with John, I have a stupid sense of protection that's probably unjustified. John (and Bro) would lose in a wrestling match with a bear.

I also feel that it's wise to keep a knife handy, so I keep mine poised in my pocket. It isn't anything more than a large pocketknife, but I feel confident that it's a defensive weapon that would be nice to have if something really bad happened (as on the road from Olsen's Lake). Since I don't carry a firearm, a knife thrust in the face of a bear might be enough to scare him off. Yes, you're right, it might also totally piss him off, and that isn't a good thing. I guess we each have to decide what feels best. For me, having a knife in my pocket when hiking alone gives me a sense of confidence.

* * * * *

I'm constantly amazed at the minimal wildlife that reveals itself near Powell Lake. The shores are steep, but even birds seem to be few in number for such a plethora of forest vegetation. There are some ducks, Canadian geese, and two loons (typically found in pairs and probably not the same ones each year) that make Hole in the Wall their home.

The haunting call of the loon is unmistakable, but it's also difficult to interpret. The call seems to spell distress, but often it occurs while an inseparable couple cruise the surface of the lake in close formation, and sometimes the cry occurs when one of the loons is, for a brief period, alone. The standard two-ship floating formation of loons is generally in-trail, with a spacing of about ten feet. When one goes underwater for a fish, the other usually follows. They reappear in nearly the same formation. I notice that a brief dive, or just sticking their long necks under water, is sometimes the precursor to an extended underwater disappearance.

When they go under on their long dives, the launch downward is quick. They sometimes travel a long way underwater and resurface with a gentle plop to resume their floating journey as if they don't even need to catch their breath.

One overcast, calm day in the Hole, I watch two loons make their customary precursor dip, followed by the expected extended dive. I decide to time them while they are down and watch how close to the dive point they resurface. After five minutes I begin to worry, and after ten minutes, I figure they are playing a trick on me. For the rest of the afternoon, I continue to keep an eye on the waters of the Hole. It would be possible for the loons to resurface without hearing them, even on such a calm day, since they return to the surface with such little fanfare.

I hear a distant mournful cry of a loon through the trees and hills that lead to Chippewa Bay. That bay is several miles away, so it couldn't be the same loons, since it's hard to miss the clumsy takeoff of these birds.

I don't see my loons until hours later in the back bay of Number 2, directly across from my cabin. Maybe their strategy was to dive out of sight under Number 2's breakwater logs, just to trick me.

Loons take a lot of runway to get airborne. Some sources say they can't muster a takeoff without at least a little wind. Their takeoff involves frantic flapping of their wings close to the water's surface. As they accelerate, they drag their landing gear as they skip and slap across the water. Their wingtips seem to touch the surface for the first fifty feet.

Their landing is a noisy water-roiling plop. But most of the time, they just paddle around, never seeming fearful of humans but not seeking human contact either. There's more than one local family of geese who have adopted the float cabin "cafe" circuit, but loons keep their distance without concern for the level of activity on the nearby floats.

In addition to the loons and flocks of ducks and geese just passing through, hoards of swallows appear on sunny afternoons on the edge of the cliffs. Bats dart around my cabin at the end of twilight, seeking flying insects missed by the swallows.

Visible ground animals are limited to a few squirrels and garter snakes. We briefly adopt a small snake named Buster, who suns himself on our transition float. He disappears after our noisy human activities on the float become disruptive to his sunbaths, but he later reappears, sunning himself on the garden float. He apparently changes his address while the garden is tied to the transition float for watering.

Snakes are certainly not my favourite critter, but I've finally become more accepting of them. Supposedly, there are no poisonous snakes in British Columbia. I keep asking John about this, and the answer is always the same. But I notice that he becomes very upset when Bro (perpetually on snake and frog alert) finds a snake. I'm not convinced it's only because Bro tends to tear snakes apart. Maybe it's because even John isn't convinced that all BC snakes are harmless.

There's little evidence of land animals on the shores of the lake, although I'm sure life is plentiful but hidden. I sometimes linger against the cliffs of Goat Island while fishing, waiting for some sign of life to appear. I might hear the chirping of a few birds in the woods (even that's not common), but other animals are almost never seen near the shore. Critters seem to be missing out on a lush forest habitat, and that has always been a mystery to me. What better life could there be for a critter than to call Goat Island home?

What is visible on the surface isn't necessarily what is underneath. After watching Goat from the sidelines for three years, I finally venture farther than the brief distance I climbed one day above the outlet of a burbling creek. (I had tied my kayak to a tree and ventured several hundred feet up the creek before turning back in the thick vegetation and ever-increasing slope.) To properly explore Goat, John and I ride 100 cc motorcycles over the numerous logging roads. We enter at the Clover Lake logging dock and discover a wealth of animals.

During this ride, we come across three bears – two cubs and their mother. They were standing in the road as we round a bend, and promptly scoot to the nearest tree. Both cubs (so small, so cute) shimmy up the tree in succession, with the mother standing guard at the base. We turn off our motorcycle engines and wait. All three bears stare at us intently for several minutes, and then the cubs slowly shimmy down the tree. As soon as they hit the ground, an imagined noise frightens them. They immediately scoot up a tree right next to the one they've just exited. Once again, mom stands guard at the base until the cubs are ready to come down. Then they promptly disappear into the forest.

On this ride, we also meet two deer, similarly standing in the middle of the logging road. Critters this size aren't stupid – why slog through the underbrush when humans have constructed these clear paths? We stop our motorcycles as quickly as possible, turning off our engines, but the noise of the small motors has spooked the doe and fawn in different ways.

The mother immediately leaps off the road and quickly climbs a steep slope to our right. In seconds, she's out of sight. But the fawn remains fixated on us, standing in position and then slowly, in a shuffle-step, stumbles down the road away from us. The fawn is positioned partly sideways as it walks clumsily, eyes focused on us. The farther the fawn walks, the more it's separated from its mother. We walk our bikes away from the fawn, hoping it will not get too far from the doe. As we approach a corner in the road, I see the fawn leap off the side of the road, headed in the direction of the mother. You never know for sure about things like this, but it's best to be confident in the power of nature. I'm sure this reunion was quick and emotional.

Although it's fun to see these deer on Goat, I've observed more deer in town than outside of it. It's not uncommon to see deer at the airport or hopping in and out of the woods near John's house on the main street in town. But if I were a deer, I'd move from town as soon as possible and take up residence on magnificent Goat Island. It's simply a more deer-like postal address.

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Chapter 9

Elephant Butt and Spitter

I sit on the deck of my cabin on the first day of July, Canada Day. There's no agenda today, except unpacking from a boat trip on the chuck. The afternoon is still early, and the temperature is pushing 30 degrees C. It feels cooler in the shade of the porch, propped up on the chaise, gazing out toward Goat Island.

Swallows swoop crossways, demonstrating their aerobatic prowess in front of me. They glide low and then power up into hammerhead stalls, zoom back toward the water, and soar within a few feet of the surface. Their mouths scoop insects on-the-wing, which explains their endless movement. Their flight paths require a tremendous amount of energy, but not without replenishment.

I attempt to follow individual birds as they swoop and glide, training my binoculars on them to see if their bug intercepts can be detected. Through the binoculars, it's difficult to follow an individual bird for very long and impossible to see them scooping up insects. They dive behind the shed, so close to the cliff that there seems no space to emerge on the other side of the small building. One bird follows a looping route down and behind the shed, out the other side, and then up into another hammerhead stall. In the binoculars, I see colourful details on this swallow as it pauses mid-air, before gravity assists its downward retrieval of airspeed. Now it darts swiftly and low over the water, makes a sudden 180-degree turn back toward the cliff, and nearly collides with the granite face.

Near collisions with the terrain happen every few minutes, but actual collisions never occur. The swallows toy with Mr. Owl, the decoy standing guard over my floating garden, avoiding a collision with his plastic bust by inches. Mr. Owl's eyes are wide open in exclamation – every time I look at him he has that same expression.

I try focusing on individual birds in the binoculars to confirm whether they are cliff swallows, since it seems an appropriate species for this spot. But I don't see the telltale orange trim, and they move too fast to determine if they have the distinctive white forehead that identifies such swallows. Now another bird is in the middle of a its upward arc, easy to catch in the binoculars. He sparkles lushly green.

Both cliff swallows and tree swallows are common in British Columbia (so too are barn swallows). If one would land for a moment, I could inspect closer – the three birds that are in constant view move too fast. I assume there are more swallows nearby, constantly swapping places in this rich insect hunting ground. The birds fly in seemingly chaotic but repeated graceful arcs in all three dimensions. Their burbling twitter is the mark of tree swallows, and their green colour nearly confirms it.

Like fighter pilots, playful dogfights break out, usually at the top of looping turns, and then everyone goes back to the business of bug patrol. There are a few quick cliff landings, but too brief to draw my binoculars to the spot before they are once again airborne. Constant motion, darting maneuvers, and endless energy – these seem to be perpetually happy critters.

A hummingbird buzzes by, stopping briefly to inspect a red plastic clothespin over my head. He looks inside the patio door, bobs his head, and then zips onward. Hummingbirds are plentiful and somewhat problematic, since they tend to buzz into the cabin whenever a door is open. Screens prevent this, if I'm careful about closing doors quickly. Once a hummingbird is inside, it becomes instantly stupid regarding navigation and thrashes against every window in its attempt to exit. So far, I've succeeded in saving intruders that sneak aboard by opening every available door and window before they beat themselves to death. Trespassers pound repeatedly on the closed glass areas from the inside before eventually finding the escape hatches.

A swallow zooms low over Spitter, a floating stump secured to the breakwater logs. As the bird passes, Spitter does what he's famous for, and the swallow is nearly doused in a gush of water. Spitter's claim to fame is his hollow design on one end. Tilted at a 30-degree angle above the water, the stump is roped to the cliff-end of the breakwater. When a boat passes through the channel a half-kilometre in front of the cabin, the wake takes approximately eight minutes to arrive. The exact amount of time varies and is primarily dependent upon boat speed and hull design (also boat weight). Under the right conditions, the wake bounces off the cliff and angles directly into Spitter's open mouth as the stump bobs upward. On the next downward swing, Spitter spits. The water goes about three feet high and outward nearly the same distance. The timing has been serendipitous today, almost dousing the swallow. The bird does not return to investigate, although the stump keeps spitting in a rhythmic cycle for another minute. Spitter spits at every wake crest, until he runs out of ammunition.

We have names for many of our floating stumps. These are drifting remnants that have been captured or that have come to visit because they've heard about our hospitality. Floating stumps of the decorative variety are tied to the breakwater. They were invited to share permanent residence at our home, either because they have attractive bulging burls or they harbour a sprouting tree or flower. Hole in the Wall is an attractor of logs that make their way into the bay in the pre-dawn calm water and then retreat back toward the main channel as the mid-morning current develops. Some of these logs are snagged by the structure of the float foundation or the breakwater, and some are grabbed by me as they sneak by.

It's amazing what is able to grow on a decaying log or stump. Little trees sprout and grow to substantial size, providing the decomposing logs with renewed life. Bushes and flowers are also common residents of their host logs. Today, as the swallows swoop, a captured log in our natural swimming hole displays two bright purple fireweed flowers in full bloom. Supposedly, fireweed is pink, but these flowers are definitely purple. Another log bobs peacefully in the pool with one blooming fireweed and a variety of moss and healthy grasses; this log has been around a long time and has established seniority.

The vegetation on these logs and stumps is watered by the waves and by moisture within the cracks of the wood. On a regular basis during the dry summer months, I make my rounds with a watering can, assisting the environment. The logs seem pleased with the extra drink, but I doubt they need my help. Nature knows how to take care of herself.

John contributed our first decorative floating stump from the bay surrounding Number 2, directly across from our cabin. He's an intense stump admirer, and this one was a gift that came with its own name – "Elephant Butt." That may seem like a degrading designation for such an attractive floating stump, but its huge root foundation rides particularly low in the water, providing its now-appropriate name. Margy planted a small tree in a decaying area of Elephant Butt, but the branches soon began to die. However, with regular watering, the seemingly dead little tree sprouted new roots and is currently very healthy.

Elephant Butt has a habit of running away from home. I don't think he's unhappy with his adopted family, but he seems to have a teenage sense of wandering. Like a child, he never seems to go very far. He's normally roped to a hefty metal eyebolt drilled into the cliff, but I sometimes return to our cabin to find Elephant Butt sneaking slowly away. In such instances, his rope is mysteriously untied and floating behind him. His departures are more like slinking away than a planned escape. He's hoping that I don't notice.

"Elephant Butt, you get back here!" I then hook up to the stump with the bow rider and tow the stump gently back into position, admonishing him all the way to the granite wall: "Now you stay home!"

A swallow flies to the top of the cliff, suddenly darts downward, and lands on the roof of the shed. The bird sits there while I focus my binoculars. I'm looking for the white forehead that confirms this bird as a cliff swallow or the lack of that marking to verify a tree swallow. It has a muted green head and back, with overlapping dark blue (almost violet) tail feathers. It's clearly a tree swallow; the forehead is subdued green and the stomach bright, fluffy white. This bird seems content with its role as the designator of the species today. The swallow preens itself slowly – I swear that this bird is posing for me, moving from one position to another, providing a constantly changing profile and frontal view. Do you like position number one, or position number two? Here it is again in case you missed it – number one; now number two. Finally, the tree swallow flies away.

* * * * *

Garden logs with their crest of natural vegetation are usually small scale as a "garden" and large magnitude as "logs." But Margy thinks the concept might be extended a bit further. Wouldn't it be nice to raise a few vegetables in the summer by log planting during the spring? She digs into the already fertile, decaying wood of some of our decorative logs, adding potting soil and a few vegetable seeds in early April. By late May, while we're in California, John reports sprouts, and by my arrival in June, there's enough token lettuce to garnish a few hamburgers. Onions and carrots are also now appearing.

I leave the float in early July for a brief return to California, and all is well but not yet fully harvestable. When I return in late July, all evidence of vegetables is gone. It's a mystery, since the veggies were developing so well earlier in the growing season. What would take such a toll so quickly?

We know it isn't land critters, since the floating logs are out of reach. And no birds seemed interested in swooping down for the goodies. Even as seedlings, the crop was ignored. It's a sad case of a mysterious disappearance of otherwise thriving vegetables.

One day, the local roving geese stop by for a visit. This is a particularly lazy family (momma, dad, and two pesky kids not yet airworthy). They take up summer residence in Hole in the Wall rather than move with the natural flocks. Food is plentiful from the Hole's float cabins, and these geese develop a well-defined route each day. I hear them honking their way around the corner cliff, past the old floating trailer-shed, indicating they have already completed their popcorn appetizer. After their bread snack from me, they proceed back into the Hole to obtain the next course of their progressive meal. It's one giant loop, and the only thing that varies on a daily basis is whether they work the circuit clockwise or counter-clockwise (oops – Canadian anti-clockwise).

While I'm searching for a stash of bread, momma hops onto a nearby log and starts pecking at the weeds. Mystery solved. As we develop our plans for a more elaborate floating garden, we know it has to incorporate anti-critter provisions.

We provide John with a general concept for a garden and let him think it through. He works best when he can innovate on his own, and the end result is the finest (if not the only) floating garden on the lake. Built on a solid foundation of cedar logs, the garden has two 12-foot by 4-foot soil beds with mill felt on the bottom to allow for adequate drainage without losing the dirt. A 3-foot wide walkway down the center allows the gardener to tend the produce and water the soil. Mesh netting over the beds prevents birds (geese included) and land animals (when the garden is docked) from feasting on the veggies. Mr. Owl is installed on an artistically-curved wooden post as a scare crow to discourage freeloaders.

The garden float can be docked to the transition float, so it's easily visited for watering and weeding. When we leave for extended periods, the float is towed by boat to a more secure location against the breakwater.

The next May, vegetables planted the previous month begin to sprout, and soon we have a fine crop of potatoes, lettuce, strawberries, radishes, carrots, onions, and a variety of herbs. But in June, the tops of the plants begin to disappear. I conclude that birds (probably geese) are eating through the mesh cover.

One June morning, I'm climbing the cliff-stairs to the outhouse when I make a significant discovery. On a rock ledge above the railing of the stairs sits a radish. I promptly report to Margy that a rock-climbing critter has dropped his loot during its scramble up the hill. It's probably a squirrel or a similar animal that's paying visits to the docked garden at night when we aren't looking.

We suspect a bushy-tailed woodrat that Margy observed inside the cabin one night during a recent solo visit to Powell River. The rat was caught hiding in the woodpile stored in one of our dens, and it took Margy a lot of careful coaxing to entice Mr. Woodrat out of the cabin. This species carries the nickname of "packrat," since it often hoards shiny objects. Radishes may not be very shiny, but Mr. Woodrat sure fits the modus operandi.

Someone is now paying regular nightly visits to the cabin float, as evidenced by mouse-like droppings on my patio lounge chair. At first, the droppings draw my anger, as I brush them away. But after awhile, I take a liking to this creature. I imagine him sitting upright in my chair each night, looking out over the deck toward Goat Island, enjoying the view with his nighttime vision. When the droppings disappear a few months later, I grow concerned, wondering what has happened to my buddy, Mr. Woodrat.

The solution for the vegetable raids is to float the garden in a position detached from shore nearly constantly, tied to the breakwater logs. It can be towed back to the transition float for daytime gardening, although that's a bit of a chore. This requires launching the boat, maneuvering into position, and then awkwardly towing the garden to the transition float, and then repeating the process to return the garden to its breakwater location before nightfall.

We find it simpler to leave the garden attached to the breakwater, and Margy paddles out in a small rubber boat (hauling gardening tools, vegetable containers, and watering cans) to accomplish her yardwork. If the weather is warm, it's easier for her to swim to the garden, pushing the rubber boat and its utensils in front of her.

The next modification is partly John's idea and partly mine. Like all gardens, this one takes a lot of water. Of course, water is plentiful right at the garden sight. Well, almost at the garden sight. You still have to kneel, fill a bucket, haul it back onto the float, and then lug the heavy water around. Wouldn't it be nice to have a hose just like city-folk? What John designs is another feat of aquatic engineering.

A solar panel is installed, charging a car battery that drives a boat bilge pump. A hose on the garden float is now always standing ready with an endless supply of lake water. The veggies love it.

Simultaneously, John installs a pulley system to allow easy retrieval of the garden from the breakwater. If simplicity is the key to efficient design, this is it. As you stand on the transition float, a small tug on the rope pulls the garden toward you. Once the float begins moving, inertia takes care of the rest. You only need to guide the garden into its parking spot, secure it for the day's activities, and shove it back toward the breakwater when you're done, letting the pulley system take over again. By tying off the rope when the garden is deployed in its anti-critter position at the breakwater, the float is secured for the night.

It's a wonderfully simple design, but I still can't make sense of how it works. I climb the cliff to gaze down on the deployed garden and its pulley system. I can clearly see the rope going under the garden float, through a pulley on the breakwater and then back to the transition float. I use my knowledge of basic physics to study the arrangement from my bird's-eye view. I still don't understand John's rigging system. But it works perfectly.

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Chapter 10

Up the Main from Tin Hat

I tune the AM radio, well before the morning's 9:30 start of the Telemarket program. Sometimes it takes considerable maneuvering on the float cabin deck to clear the background static of the AM station that serves Powell River and the lower portions of Powell Lake. Remote listeners in Hole in the Wall must tilt their radios at peculiar angles to get a clear signal.

I've never called any of the Telemarket phone numbers, but I'm often tempted. I don't need a fur coat, but the $25 price tag makes me wonder if this is real fur. If I ever need a washer and dryer, this is the place to be. Who are all of these people selling washers and dryers? Do Powell River residents move so often that this glut of laundry machinery is so plentiful?

Of course, I listen for boats of any description, even though I'm clearly not in the market (for the moment). I can never pass up an ad for a boat, no matter what description. These radio ads paint a picture of the community and sometimes serve as a stark reminder of economic conditions. A man pleads over the phone call-in line for odd jobs around the house. He says he can do any type of work, and I'm convinced he can. I want to hire him, but I have nothing for him to do.

As the Telemarket mailbag closes, I have my satellite phone already activated. It sits powered-up on the edge of the float deck, in a position where reception in the deep contours of Hole in the Wall is most reliable. The awkward bulbous antenna is upright, and auto-dial stands ready to call John. He answers on the first ring, probably expecting my call now that Telemarket has concluded.

"Did you hear the ad for the F150 truck?" I ask.

"No," he says in a drawn out Canadian tone. I know he has heard every ad.

"The one that's labeled 'a beater' with a lot of klicks and two good tires."

"Oh." Canadian drawn out again. "Two good tires are worth something," he says.

"What's the plan?" I ask, not really caring. I know we're going riding, and John always makes good decisions. He's my personal tour guide to the Canadian wilderness. His services are worth millions to me, but he only begrudgingly accepts a tank of gas for his quad. We always use the same gas station, since the blond girl behind the counter smiles pretty and provides Bro with a milk-bone.

"How soon can you meet me at Rob's?" asks John.

Rob has a house that provides storage for (so far) my 100 cc off-road motorcycle, Margy's small quad, and my utility trailer. Last week, my assets there included a 23-foot Bayliner on blocks for bottom painting. Since I'm now in the market for a quad, I'm thinking about how to break the news to Rob. I kid him about moving my airplane into his back yard for storage (wingspan only 32 feet), and I'm not sure whether he thinks I'm serious, but he immediately says: "No worries."

Rob's carport already houses his boat, and the driveway is always full of trucks and taxicabs (his own cab and associates from Powell River Taxi). Rob is one of John's three brothers. Two of them have taxicabs. The third taxi driver in his family, a sister, recently moved to Victoria and is now out of the taxicab business. No brother of John would ever live in Victoria.

The late start on our ride today is unusual. More typical is a crack-of-dawn departure from my float cabin to get to town and do some quick chores before meeting John at Rob's house at 9 o'clock. Those chores take awhile, since it's a prime time for hauling trash. Powell River locks dumpsters without exception, so you need your own secret receptacles. It's also time to park near the coffee shop (go inside, if in the mood for a latte) and download email over the wireless connection.

Today's late start will work fine for our short ride. By the time I get to town, finish my brief errands, and meet John at Rob's house, it will be almost noon. John is into long quad rides, and I constantly make excuses for shorter ones. Today's trip will not be long, starting near Lois Lake on Goat Main. Thus, the late meeting time at Rob's house. Like most rides, this one will begin on a forest road and quickly transition to a small trail.

John knows every inch of this territory, so I blindly follow him as we start up Goat Main. The dust from the dirt road is a significant problem in the summer. Thus, we ride separated by a dust-length – whatever distance makes it acceptable to the vehicle behind. On most summer days, the dust-length is at least a half-klick. John leads, stopping at every major junction to assure I don't cruise past the turning point, blissfully thrust alone into the wilderness.

At one primary junction, we hit the magic sign on Goat Main: "Up the Main from Tin Hat." It's a logging truck reporting point, and that's the wording the truckers are supposed to use to identify their vehicle's progress as they head up Goat Main from Tin Hat Junction. Any logging trucks barreling down Goat Main will know (from the radio call) where to expect to pass a buddy on this one-lane dirt road. Most recreational riders (me included) don't carry VHF radios, but we ride only on weekends when the truckers are home drinking beer.

This entrancing sign means more to me every time I see it. Tin Hat Mountain will be my final exam. I've been on the road to Tin Hat before, but it's the mountain at the end that I covet. John says I'm not quite ready for that climb – "Could kill yourself," he notes without inflection.

Tin Hat Mountain isn't huge (1220 metres, about 4000 feet), but the climb marks the difference between city-folk and locals. I want to be a local. John talks about sitting on the top of Tin Hat, eating lunch, and "just checking things out." John puts a lot of effort into checking things out from places like Tin Hat. It will be a landmark final exam luncheon for me.

Most of the peaks in this region are surprisingly low. Beartooth is only 1800 metres. Yet it juts upward with a spiked thrust that can be seen throughout the region. Beartooth serves as an important landmark to keep me geographically oriented. Since most of these mountains rise from lake-level (or ocean-level), they protrude as peaks that look higher than they are. The really big mountains are farther north, out of range of our quads and motorcycles.

John has sat on top of most of the local peaks and viewed sights that no city-folk have ever seen. Someday I'll sit beside him on Tin Hat, but not today.

It's been baby steps for me, as John has introduced me to riding. In fact, my first such experience was on a 100 cc motorcycle in a local gravel pit. Gradually, I worked my way up to challenges that currently put me in the "advanced novice" category (my own evaluation). It all began when Margy came back from a hike with John from Hole in the Wall to Chippewa Bay. She reported that they ran into fellows on motorcycles, as they crossed the dirt logging road behind the Hole, and (of course) John knew the riders. I suppose it's not surprising that, while hiking in the middle of nowhere, you might meet other people, but what is the chance that you will know them? For John, the chances are better than fifty-fifty.

Margy describes the riders they met – hunters carrying their rifles on small motorcycles. They had brought a boat into Chippewa Bay to use the logging road. She reports that John feels these small motorcycles are ideal for exploring near the lake. Anything bigger won't fit into any of our boats.

My imagination goes wild. John's obsession with all-terrain vehicles hasn't captured me (yet), but riding a small motorcycle off-road sure sounds like fun. With two such bikes, John and I can explore trails on Powell Lake, and Margy and I can (by ourselves) do a little exploring on logging roads outside of town. Complications are ignored, including the need for a trailer to haul the bikes and the fact that Margy doesn't seem keen on wheeling through the wilderness on a motorcycle.

By now, I've learned that such purchases are best left to John. He knows what I want more than I do, so I establish my prime concern (a red bike), and let him manage the details. As usual, he picks the perfect product, and it's red. However, the two-for-one deal that he works out with the motorcycle shop probably causes the salesman to shake his head as John walks away. John is never satisfied unless the deal is so good that the seller makes zero or negative profit. I'm convinced that the only reason the shop sold these bikes at such a discounted price was "in consideration of future business." Such sales attitudes in town are not unusual and make shopping for big-buck items a triumph for John.

This is the beginning of a metamorphosis for me. Slowly, I develop biking skills under John's tutelage. There are plenty of wipeouts, with a few near-injuries, but it's all part of John's method of instruction by osmosis. I learn new skills by riding with him, and he occasionally lets me stick my head out a bit too far to learn how not to do it.

One day with "sunny breaks," we load the small motorcycles into John's boat. We follow the east shore of the lower lake in our two boats (so I can go home to Hole in the Wall when we're finished riding), battling waves that normally wouldn't be a serious concern. With the tail-heavy boat carrying the bikes, it's a slow and careful excursion.

We off-load the cycles at the Chippewa Bay logging dock, planning to bike to the starting point for a hike to an old steam donkey used by loggers fifty years ago. We stop abruptly at a completely unmarked point in the logging road, John noting: "This is it."

This is what? There's nothing to mark the beginning of a trail here. But after parking the bikes and busting our way through thick alders on the side of the mountain, we're soon climbing in light rain. John describes it as the beginning of "pissin' down rain," which he hates. We follow an old railroad bed, barely identifiable until John points out some buried track. Up and up we go to a well-preserved steam donkey used in days gone by to lower logs down the side of the mountain. John has an intense appreciation for the history of this region and is an expert on the location of old railroad-logging sites. But he hates the rain.

* * * * *

When I first travel into the backcountry, I notice that many of the off-road riders are talking about the insurance laws. You're supposed to have third-party liability insurance to ride an ATV off-road on Crown land. That makes no sense to most riders. Whose forests are these anyway? As the saying goes: "Powell River is a long way from Ottawa." Ottawa, in the opinion of most local off-road riders, is nothing more than the Canadian capital where all of these stupid rules are made.

There are two groups of ATV riders – those who purchase the legally required insurance and try to forget about it, and those who refuse to give in. No one is ever stopped and checked for insurance in this region (not true of later years). We can ride all day and never see any other people. As some say, the conservation officer (the "CO") has a lot of territory to cover, and just let him try to check our insurance. Other riders (like me) would feel uncomfortable without insurance, so it's a moot point.

"I've known guys who just laugh and charge off on their quads," says John. "The CO never catches them." I know that John, as truthful as he always strives to be, is exaggerating. He probably doesn't know anyone who has done this, and he wouldn't do it himself. But the point is: "It's our forests."

Off-road drivers, like Powell Lake boaters, abide by laws because the rules are logical. They drive carefully in the interest of personal safety, not because the regulations require it. In this region, you must have a complete respect for safety or you don't survive. That takes some getting used to for me. It's strange, at first, to hear these tough backwoods characters saying: "Be careful." But they mean it.

ATV riders are safe and protective of the environment. They make sure the areas they ride through are improved by their passage. You'll see them stopping to move rocks for the next guy and breaking off branches that overgrow the trails. John stops for every discarded tin can (there aren't many of them). He says it's for the five-cent refund, but he's consciously cleaning the trails at the same time.

* * * * *

On one boat-motorcycle journey, we travel to the Head (northernmost point of Powell Lake) to explore a series of logging roads and trails that cover some of the most beautiful territory I've ever (to this day) seen. Jim Brown Main leads to a spot where we see four mountain waterfalls simultaneously from a roadside location while watching a bear roaming in the meadow below. John's keen eyesight picks out the bear, which only becomes observable to me when I stare at the spot for a few minutes and then see the black dot move.

This trip to the Head is one of our longer trips, and I'm growing rapidly weary. We meet some other bikers who have toted their motorcycles up the long journey to the Head in a houseboat. John, of course, knows every one of them by name.

I'm so tired that I finally stop well short of our ultimate destination, the headwaters of Daniels River. I pull off to the side of the dirt road into a logging slash. In remarkable variation to John's attitude of not proceeding without me, he agrees to continue a few klicks up the road by himself. We've come a long way, and he doesn't want to stop short of our goal.

I plop down in the slash, flat on my back in full rain gear that covers every inch of my body except my head. I keep my helmet on to ward off the swarm of mosquitoes looking for human meat. My jacket's high collar is tucked under my helmet, and thick gloves protect my hands. I'm happy but exhausted.

The mosquitoes are persistent. With my head covered by both helmet and tight-fitting goggles, they're buzzing in through my mouth plate. They're also biting me through my thick rain pants. Fortunately, John is gone only half an hour, and returns to report a large cougar and gorgeous glaciated mountains to the north. I have only mosquito bites to show for this leg of the journey.

* * * * *

Both all-terrain vehicles (quads) and off-road motorcycles are referred to (by us locals) as "bikes," since they both fit into the category of trail vehicles that sometimes ride together. I can ride easily on my small motorcycle behind John's quad in most terrain, since he needs to travel slowly with Bro in the aft box-seat. My 100 cc bike is a big challenge for me on these rocky and rutted surfaces, but the motorcycle handles most obstacles amazingly well. That takes some getting used to, but now I find that going over rocks and branches is as safe as going around them.

Usually, motorcycles and quads can't ride together, because the motorcycles are big bikes (400 cc or larger), and they go fast. Quads are the slow-but-sure vehicles of the wilderness, and can tread where motorcycles only dream. John sold his 600 cc motorcycle for a similarly-powered quad that can carry Bro, a chainsaw, and a nearly endless supply of food (necessary wherever John travels). His built-in electric winch can pull a buddy's vehicle out of harm's way or self-propel his own quad out of any situation (so far). Just hook yourself to a nearby tree and crank away.

Of course, John's quad is equipped for everything – tool kit, extra rain gear, and a host of off-road modifications. As rugged as John is, he hates the cold (and wet), and that makes his off-road travel in coastal British Columbia a special challenge. He has thus installed handgrip warmers. ("See that electric switch?" he says, as he demonstrates this unique modification.) And for good measure, his electrical warming system is wired into a heated throttle thumb lever – a bit of overkill.

John's traveling companions always show respect for him and his brother Rick. These brothers possess legendary knowledge of the wilderness. As one rider notes: "Nobody knows these mountains better than John." Most of his companions ride quads, but some ride large motorcycles. Over time, almost all of them switch to quads, and that's initially a mystery to me (to most of them too).

Riding a motorcycle through this terrain is exceptionally challenging, but that's a major part of the fun of it for me. Initially, it takes so much concentration on the rocks, potholes, and mud puddles that I miss viewing a lot of my surroundings. But then there's the point where driving is almost automatic. Now you can absorb the forest sights much better. But there also comes the time where you can no longer proceed along a trail, and the quads just press on through in four-wheel drive.

On one ride, I walk my bike through a series of such spots, and on some slopes turn to John to double-back and ride my bike through (with ease, of course). He protects me from having to turn back on any route, since he knows what routes will be my limitation. The point is, there is this limitation, and it takes a bit of exploring on an off-road motorcycle to accept it. Then it's time for a quad. Most of the locals reached that point a long time ago, some slower than others.

There are few places that John and his brother Rick can't navigate on a motorcycle, so even they have now upgraded to quads. It's a humbling experience for most, but it always seems to happen. It's not just a matter of age, although at first that's what stops me from the upgrade. Only the old guys drive quads (not true), and I'm not about to admit I'm old. But John and Rick now drive quads, and they are (from my viewpoint) still kids.

Margy selects a quad right away. She feels completely uncomfortable on the 100 cc motorcycle. ("It's hopeless," reports John immediately, when we practice in the gravel pit.) But she doesn't want one of the big machines. She selects (wrong – she's wise enough to let John select) a 230 cc quad that's ideal for her. It's small and maneuverable, yet able to go almost anywhere that the big quads can go. This bike is limited by its horsepower and lack of four-wheel drive, but is otherwise able to handle almost anything. I support this decision, but decide that I'll stick to my small motorcycle for now. The local ATV dealer sells a 230 cc quad to John at a near-break-even discount price once again. And Rob's garage gets another stored vehicle.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 11

Night Rescue

The Powell River newspaper arrives at my home in California on Thursdays, or maybe some other day, if at all. Out-of-country subscriptions are a minority, and sometimes you just have to demonstrate patience. I don't, so I'm constantly trying to determine whether my subscription has been cancelled, lost, or merely delayed. I'm always reassured that all is well, and that it's best blamed on the mail – it's always fun to pick on the combined postal services of the U.S. and Canada. But a few days after my complaint, the newspaper finally arrives, implying that something has been fixed, for now.

This newspaper is my lifeline to Powell River when I'm away. Phone calls to John help a lot, but the paper provides the pulse of the community. That pulse is sometimes difficult to understand. Most of the locals (at least publicly) are clamoring for more tourism, the key to financial growth for the town. They want the cruise ships to stop. The city council is working on new waterfront development to capture the local ferry traffic that speeds through and out of Powell River – traffic intent on Comox to the west or Vancouver to the south. And everyone (publicly) encourages retirees to make Powell River their home. The paper mill is losing its economic stimulus. Layoffs are all too common.

In the meantime, I'm hoping the road from Squamish (a pipe dream) is never built, and that ferries keep Powell River isolated forever. Let the cruise ships keep going, and keep those damn Americans out of the town. I've been known to give friends in the U.S. the geographic coordinates of my float cabin, slipping the digits a degree or two in both latitude and longitude. I read the local newspaper with muted enthusiasm for the failure of political plans that would enhance tourism. What is needed is another consultant and another study to delay the process further. I thus support such studies.

The local newspaper always reminds me of the differences regarding crime in this area compared to the big city. Every infraction is published, including theft of twenty bags of sheep manure from behind the Patricia Theater. Crimes are not nonexistent; they are merely less stressful.

In Comox, a woman (admittedly, not a Powell River local), sets fire to an ice cream truck when the vehicle's musical tune starts to drive her crazy. She simply can't take it any more.

In Powell River, a man reports awakening to noises downstairs, and descends to find his freezer missing. Food isn't an uncommon object of theft. It might have helped if the house door was locked, but that's asking a lot. In another article (same edition), a woman finds an empty freezer in her back yard. The RCMP is investigating. Often, in the classified ads, you can line up the lost objects with those reported as found and negate half of the lost-and-found items.

My personal favourite burglary report involves a Powell River man who calls home from his girlfriend's house to check his voicemail. A male voice answers the phone ("Hello") and then immediately hangs up. The thief interrupts his well-planned crime to answer the phone while robbing the apartment. The RCMP responds to the crime scene, but the television and stereo are already gone. However, the victim has recognized the voice on the phone – it's his neighbor. So the RCMP investigates further and finds the stolen property already in use next door. Case closed.

This week's newspaper has an article entitled "No Nukes." The municipal council unanimously passed a motion to reaffirm Powell River as a nuclear-free zone. Under the resolution, the zone is supposed to be sign-posted at two approved locations. I haven't noticed the signs yet. How reassuring that the technology of Powell River has its declared nuclear limits.

This town has character; and characters. I drive the streets and wave at people I know. Try that in Los Angeles.

* * * * *

My first summer alone on the float is a dream come true. I have many projects (each summer they become wonderfully fewer and fewer), but I still have lots of time to simply enjoy the "peace and quiet" – a phase often bantered in literature, but never truer than here. Margy has already been alone on the float in a daring November visit and a violent autumn storm. The concept of surviving alone at this cabin isn't very adventurous in theory, but to city-folk, it's almost beyond comprehension. Whenever Margy or I reside solo on the float, the remaining-in-California spouse provides two constant reminders: (1) I'm very jealous; and (2) Be careful.

I remember my friend Greg from the Air Force who decided to live on a boat in California. He really wasn't a boater, but he just wanted to try the live-aboard lifestyle. It worked wonderfully until he fell one night and broke his hip, a very painful injury that's not only for the old. He had no phone and couldn't crawl out of the boat. In his remote section of the harbour, his cries for help went unattended for two days. Imagine lying in a boat with a broken hip for two days. Imagine what could happen alone on a float cabin. In a Powell River newspaper article, a man steps off a float deck in Goat Lake on a winter evening, hits his head, and drowns.

One day when both Margy and I are on the float, my feet come out from under me while walking down the wet stairs from the cliff. I land on my back, against the hard wood steps (inclined at a 50 degree angle). It's the most violent impact my body has ever sustained. The wind is knocked out of me (from behind), and Margy is caught gaping at me from below. She doesn't see the fall but hears the thud. There are no broken bones, no serious bruises, and not even a backache the next day. I hit the steps in a way that somehow avoids any damage, but it could have been disastrous. I try to remember this fall when I'm alone at the cabin.

I try to remember it when I'm coming down from the loft in the middle of the night, supposedly to use the pee bucket, but mostly to step out onto the deck and see the darkness, the clouds (or stars), and to feel the air. I use the loft's handrail and pay attention to that last step.

When I'm cutting onions, I remember the day that I sliced my finger, watched it bleed for half an hour, and paid for it with a sore fingertip for weeks. It could have been a lot worse.

But the payback is more than worth this extra care and occasional worry. Everything has an associated risk, large or small. Activities with the highest risk are almost always the activities with the largest rewards. I fly airplanes, and this is something I understand.

* * * * *

Tonight I sit on my float, alone at night. It's not yet completely dark. I'm at the picnic table on the front deck, pounding (lightly) on my laptop keyboard, working on a school project. Jess' float is still visible in the 11 o'clock July evening twilight, but there's no one home. In fact, there's no one in the Hole tonight except me. It's quiet (peace and quiet), and my schoolwork takes on a comfortable feeling. It's so dark that I can barely see the keyboard, but I want to avoid any additional lights, since the mosquitoes are flickering around me near the table. They seem attracted to the shine of the computer screen, so I'm preparing to wrap things up for the night.

Beyond Jess' cabin, there's one more float (his sister's) before the open channel, with Goat silhouetted beyond. It's going to be a dark night, clear with no moon. Peace and quiet with absolutely no wind, and not a ripple on the water. Then I hear a motor.

It's a tinny sound, more like a lawnmower with a fouled plug than an outboard motor. It's slowly approaching from the left and should appear in the channel beyond the corner cliff, if it's indeed a boat. This is very late for a small boat on the lake, and the engine does not sound healthy. I put away my laptop and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. There's still a hint of twilight in the west, but that's behind me. In front, the lake and Goat are almost black.

After waiting what seems forever, a small boat appears near the cliff to my left, chugging ever so slowly to the south. My mind stretches for possible scenarios. The first situation that comes to mind is a fisherman or cabin owner headed back to the Shinglemill, ten miles away. But why would anyone be traveling in a small boat with a sick engine at this time of night? The boat has one white light on a pole at the stern, and I conclude that something isn't right. I'm not entirely sure what's wrong, but the engine sounds terrible, like a twenty horsepower outboard generating minimal rough thrust.

Maybe the engine has gone bad, and this fellow feels he must get back to civilization tonight. He's not even at the midpoint of my deck yet, so his speed indicates it will take forever to get home, if he makes it at all. The engine seems ready to die, and what's left isn't very healthy.

I think of the local newspaper: "Man Drowns on Powell Lake." I'm only a half-mile from him, and I have a cozy cabin. He's in the main channel of the lake at night in a boat with an ill engine. And there are other cabins all around that are empty and certainly okay to use in such an emergency. He should not proceed much farther.

But wait a minute – there's another piece to this scenario. This man cannot stop, since he has a wife who is waiting for him at home. If he does not arrive tonight, she'll be frantic. If only he knew that I have a satellite phone. We could call her and explain that he'll be staying overnight in one of the adjacent cabins. I know that John wouldn't mind if a man in an emergency were to use Number 2.

The boat is at the midpoint of my deck now. I turn on a sealed-beam flashlight that has enough power to penetrate a mile. I set the light on my picnic table, facing out toward the boat. He'll certainly see this bright beam and know that help awaits here. He must see my light, since there aren't any other beams to attract his attention, but the boat keeps on chugging, missing a complete stroke every few seconds. An unhealthy clanging now replaces the tinny noise, and the boat seems to be slowing even further. The vessel continues to the south at a snail's pace.

Maybe he doesn't see my signal. I pick up the light, aim it directly at the boat, and move the beam from side to side. There's no acknowledgement. But if he started out in the daylight and wasn't planning a night trip, he might not have a flashlight to shine a return beam.

Now the boat is well past the extended centerline of my cabin and approaching First Narrows. The vessel will go out of sight in a few minutes behind the cabin of Jess' sister and the trees beyond. First Narrows is beyond those trees.

Maybe the boat driver doesn't know this lake at all. Heck, he could even be city-folk like me, not recognizing that the nearby cabins are available for emergency use.

Now I see a new headline in the newspaper: "American Saves Boater." The article goes on to explain: "In a daring night rescue on Powell Lake..."

My mind begins to race. I can't ignore this situation any further. Someone could get hurt. Of course, judging by the amount of flotsam in the Hole tonight, that could be me. To reach this floundering boat, I'll have to navigate through waters containing various logs and sticks that have floated into the Hole and are now captured by the bay. With no wind, floating debris traditionally hangs around until mid-morning. It's dark, and I'm an inexperienced boater. I've seldom been on this lake in total darkness, so navigating around logs is going to be a major challenge. I won't be able to go fast, so I'd better get going, if I'm gonna go at all.

The boat is approaching the point where it will disappear from view, so I need to act promptly. I grab the satellite phone (check), life vest (check), boat keys (check), spotlight (check). I hop aboard the Campion and stand between the seats to allow better forward visibility through the open walk-through windshield and the unzipped overhead canvas. My engine is now running and ready. Shift into forward, and... Wham! I'm nearly thrown to the floor by the jolt of the boat trying to accelerate forward while still tied to the dock. Maybe that shouldn't be included in the newspaper article.

I'm navigating out of the Hole now, trying to remain patient and calm. The small boat with its tinny engine has disappeared behind the trees, and is headed into the Narrows, but I can catch it. Right now I must concentrate on the floating obstacles in the water. Logs are all around me. My spotlight, powered from the boat's DC receptacle, is a strong beam. I pick out the log nearest the front of my boat, maneuver to the side, and then refocus on the next chunk of wood.

I pick my way through slowly, but the path clears as I approach the main channel. Now I turn right and feel confident enough to push the throttle forward a bit. My navigation lights and are on. My bright halogen docking lights are on. The spotlight is on and pointed forward. I'm lit up like a Christmas tree and coming to the rescue!

The small boat is now only about thirty metres ahead. The driver turns his craft broadside to me, and I shine the spotlight on his boat. This beam must look powerfully bright from the boater's perspective at this close range. There's a single occupant, and even from this distance, he looks scared, so I kill the light. I cut the power of my engine to idle, but I continue to drift closer, within ten metres or less. Rescue in progress.

Then the boater suddenly applies full power and starts to accelerate away from me across the channel toward Goat Island. The engine now sounds a lot more powerful and quite healthy. What?!

There's no way this puny boat is going to get away from me. I've come all this way, and I need some answers, so I hit the switch on the spotlight and aim the beam directly at the driver, holding it there as he continues to move away. In a few seconds, he cuts his throttle and turns his boat toward mine as he decelerates. I move slowly forward toward the mystery boat, keeping the beam pointed at the sole occupant. With both of our engines now at idle (his clanging), he'll be able to hear me without yelling. I point the spotlight away from his face (a face that looks frightened), letting it bounce off the cliffs of Goat.

"Do you need some help?" I ask.

He answers in a disgusted voice: "Hey, man, I was only trolling!"

Oh.

"Sorry, I thought you needed some help."

I depart the scene of the rescue, and pick my way slowly back into the Hole. There's no hurry now, so I stop among the driftwood and mentally regroup for a moment, checking the position of the logs along my return path by illuminating each of them in sequence with my spotlight.

It would have been a nice newspaper article.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Center-of-Book Photos

Chapter 12

Theodosia

While Margy is in Los Angeles, I go riding with John. It involves a route that he insists requires Margy's quad. It's the most recent on John's list of go-there-every-weekend destinations, and cannot be ridden on a motorcycle (not true – it can't be ridden by a motorcyclist with my novice skills). So I must take Margy's quad. I resist, but when John says we're going someplace, we're going. Theodosia Valley is our destination, and it's also a longer ride, which is not my favourite thing.

But by the end of the day, I'm a quad convert. I ride the most difficult terrain I've ever encountered, but I end the day a lot less fatigued than on the motorcycle. Although challenged by the trails, I'm actually able to look around at the scenery rather than concentrating only on driving. And those water-filled low spots that soak my boots and pants on a motorcycle – I just plow through on the quad with the water up to the running boards. If the water is even higher, I can still keep going by propping my feet on the front fenders. Boots and pants come through such ordeals city-folk dry. Now that's my idea of luxury.

The next time we meet at Rob's garage, John asks: "Bike or quad?" They are both "bikes," but I know what he means – either my 100 cc motorcycle or Margy's 230 cc quad can ride this route, so it's my choice.

"I'll take the quad." That's a turning point, and I know it. I now have to grovel, asking Rob if there's room for a new quad in his garage. "No worries," he answers.

* * * * *

My final exam (Tin Hat Mountain) is still a ways off, but there's another destination in Theodosia Valley that John wants to try with me (call it a mid-term exam). I won't be able to make this journey by motorcycle. John knows I can make it on a quad, but he isn't sure that Margy's quad without four-wheel drive can handle the ride with me at the controls. If I get in over my head, there's a solution without turning back. The last leg of the route is the primary problem, and I can walk that portion of the trail, if necessary. John is confident he can backtrack and get Margy's quad through this section. So we depart for Theodosia Valley.

This is my third trip into Theodosia, all by quad, within the past month. John gets going on a destination and works it and works it. Then suddenly, he moves to an entirely different region (and works it and works it). Right now he's working Theodosia.

We park just off Route 101, where a house with large acreage sports a huge lawn in the middle of nowhere. The owner is currently riding his mower over the endless grass.

"Why would anyone want a lawn this big?" I ask John. "He must have to mow it all the time."

"It's something to do," explains John.

Jimmy is already parked and unloaded. He has a 660 cc quad like John's, a diesel pickup truck (the envy of John), and 76 years of lifetime experience. He's worked as a logger in northern BC for an independent logging "show" that dragged their timber out of the forest by sleigh in the winter. He describes that job as a combination of lumberjack and horseman. Jimmy hauls ass on a quad.

We offload our bikes while Bro runs around in circles like a madman. The previous night's rain has dampened the surface perfectly for a morning of nearly dust-free riding. I ask Jimmy if the watering truck has just passed through (there's no such thing here), and he replies that he called the water department the night before to tell them an American was going quad riding, and they responded immediately.

Jimmy shows us his spray bottle of nitroglycerin that he carries in case his heart goes astray. He notes that he's feeling "kind of funny" today and asks kiddingly if we want a shot of his nitro. John replies by inquiring what we should do with him if he conks out on the trail today, and Jimmy says that he'd be honoured if we would leave him right there beside the trail and say a few kind words. I figure that Jimmy is going to outlive me.

The first part of the route into Theodosia is easy going on a forest road that parallels Okeover Inlet. I'm riding in third position, and the dust picks up as we proceed farther, so I slow down to allow some spacing. The next time I see John and Jimmy, they're stopped at a logging slash where they have seen a bear that has now departed. Bro is jumping up and down in his quad box with near-vertical leaps, demanding to chase the bear. Fortunately, his overweight condition prohibits him from jumping out of the box under routine conditions, although he occasionally leaps out on steep sloping corners in rough terrain.

In a few miles we pass a stop sign at an intersection on the forest road in the middle of nowhere. I wonder about the effectiveness of this sign and whether anyone has ever stopped here. We slow down a little, look both ways, and proceed at moderate speed.

Within the next mile, we encounter four horses walking their way to Theodosia, and we stop briefly to talk with the female riders. It seems too far for a day trip by horseback, but they are carrying no overnight gear. They look like they know what they're doing, but we don't hang around long enough to ask details about their plans. John is anxious to get going. Horses and quads are not a good mix. ("It freaks them out," says John.) Later, on the way out of Theodosia, we notice horse droppings near the logging camp. These horses made it all the way into Theodosia, which surprises us. We're also amazed at the extent of horse droppings on the path back to our trucks. Is there any animal that goes to the bathroom more often than a horse?

The logging road changes to a wide trail with less dust, so we're able to ride closer together. I pull up nearly abreast John to check out a weird noise I can barely hear over the roar of my engine and the noise of John's quad. My helmet even further suppresses the sound; but it's a howling noise coming from John's bike. John looks over his shoulder to see what I'm doing, and I stare back – at Bro. The Lab's head is held high, and he's howling over the roar of our quads. John realizes what I'm looking at and simply shakes his head. I guess this is pretty normal.

I drop back behind John and watch Bro howl without apparent reason for the next few miles. Then he suddenly stops his wavering cry, and rests his chin on the rear seat box.

The trail narrows and leads us to the starting point of the climb up the ridge that separates Okeover Inlet from Theodosia. This trail, like many in the region, is rutted by trenches that cross the path and demand slower speeds on our quads. Trenches are usually natural drainage ditches from the mountains and are often running with water. In other places, they are man-made, either to support water runoff or to keep us out. There's a love-hate relationship between bikers and loggers. Large trenches don't stop quads, but they do slow them down.

Trenches can stop motorcycles, as I discovered on a recent ride to Murphy Lake. On that trek, the trenches kept getting bigger and bigger (and rockier and rockier), until finally I had to ask John to take my motorcycle through. Meanwhile, the quads on that trip just kept on truckin'.

There are two narrow paths into Theodosia from the trenched trail. The first, which we pass, is an easier route. We used it on my first visit to Theo, but the second path is shorter. We enter that trail, and wind upward through an area that quad riders have preened with meticulous attention. Fallen trees have been cleared from the trail, and rocks have been moved into low-lying ruts that would otherwise be completely flooded. It looks like a U.S. National Parks project, except steeper. This trail, which I was introduced to on the return portion of my first visit to Theodosia (with a lot of adrenaline pumping), seems second-nature today. It's certainly challenging, but not the least bit scary.

At the top of the ridge, we exit into the sunlight of a clearing and join a narrow dirt road used by loggers. In another mile, we reach the end of the road. Directly in front of us is a wide barrier of boulders piled 8 feet high, with a precipitous drop on both sides. Previously there was a locked gate here (the yellow posts are still visible), but quad riders cut a path around it. Loggers piled these rocks (with ease, using heavy-duty logging equipment) a few months ago to keep quads out of the original road entrance to Theodosia. John led a contingent that cleared the rocks (not with ease, one rock at a time), and the loggers immediately moved the boulders back into their piles. This went on for a few weeks until John and his quad buddies finally built a precipitous trail around both the rocks and the gate. The loggers decided not to retaliate again.

We maneuver around the boulders, and then down a rough trail into Theodosia Valley. It bottoms out at a dirt road that serves the logging camp, a huge floating barge on Theodosia Inlet. Logging equipment is scattered everywhere. There's no sign of life.

It's a weekend, and this is the time for recreational use of the valley (regardless of the stacked boulders). In the love-hate relationship between loggers and bikers, loggers cease operations for their coveted weekend breaks, and turn the area over to the quads – reluctantly. But loggers and bikers have similar mind-sets. They love the wilderness, respect nature, and know how to live with the environment. It's hard for hate to overcome love in such a relationship. Many loggers openly side with the bikers. Some ride quads to work.

We wind along Theodosia Inlet. It's low tide, and the north end of the inlet is swampy exposed gravel. We ride along the east shore, parallel to log booms. Near a major intersection, we pause (engines off, even during brief stops, to conserve gas) for a lunch break. John hears the sound of an engine. He can easily identify a quad from a motorcycle or anything else. I've watched him discriminate a specific owner's bike by the sound of the exhaust miles away. ("That's Eldon!") But this isn't a bike – "Diesel," says John. What it's doing here on a Saturday is a bit of a mystery.

When the logging truck reaches the intersection, the driver sees our bikes and stops to visit. He shouldn't shut off his diesel, so we talk with the engine clanging. The truck is carrying a half-load of pecker poles, and the driver is a young fellow full of energy who enjoys talking to Jimmy about logging. He describes today's work as "getting ahead" in case the forests are closed to logging, as is anticipated in the local newspapers. Forest fire danger usually closes the forests to logging in July (this year is particularly dry), and he's looking forward to his any-day-now vacation (although without pay). Logging can produce a lot of errant sparks, so closures for commercial operators come first, sometimes followed by closures for recreational use. Bikers dread that possibility.

We discuss the love-hate relationship. This fellow is one of the lovers, and he sympathizes with us about the "stupid" boulders at the gate. He tells us we can expect two more logging trucks coming down the main, followed by a "crummy" (truckload of loggers). He knows (from his VHF radio) that the big trucks have already left the slash, but he's not sure about the crummy. We decide to wait before risking travel on this narrow road.

Within minutes, two full loads of pecker poles come through the intersection with a noisy blast of power, barely slowing for the junction. It's a good thing we waited. The crummy could be far behind, so we're about to start our engines when John tells us to wait. He hears another motor (I hear nothing). In a few minutes a crummy with loggers crowded in the back barrels across the intersection. Crummy drivers are famous for driving too fast on steep, narrow roads. Their reputation is upheld today.

We start our engines and proceed. Down the road, we pass a refrigerator off to the side of a turnout, providing a slice of lumberjack humor. We're far from the nearest electricity, but the front of the derelict fridge is marked with a sign: "Beer 25 Cents per Can." I stopped here the previous week for a photo of John and Bro on their quad. I emailed the photo home with the title: "A Man, a Dog, and a Canadian Quarter." Someone has added to the artwork since our last visit. The side of the refrigerator now advertises: "Sluts 25 Cents per Dozen." Lumberjack humor is unique.

We pass through one of the more extensive logging slashes in this part of BC. Usually loggers leave some trees, thus disclaiming a "clear cut," but here there isn't a single tree left standing. Bright purple fireweed (should be pink) is everywhere in this slash. Usually you see fireweed only along the edge of the road. Here it extends throughout the slash, waving in the wind like a giant flag of purple.

John leads us onto a trail that soon threads into nearly impassible thick bushes that mark the river inlet to Theodosia. Just when it looks like it will be totally overgrown, the trail opens into a more forest-like environment of ferns and small trees. John stops here, and I pull up behind him. He stands on his quad's footrests and twists his body toward me.

"From here, everything we do," he says.

I stare at him, trying to make sense of this non-sentence. There must be some words missing.

"From here, everything we do," he repeats.

Yes, I heard you the first time, I say to myself. I continue my inquisitive look, but John doesn't clarify it any further. Surely, I understand English.

"Oh – you've built this trail," I say with revelation.

"Yup." He twists his torso forward, sits back down, and off we go. Sometimes John speaks his own language, a short-cut English that saves words and energy.

The trail John and his friends have built is tended to perfection. It isn't an easy path to travel, but it's landscaped with boulders that have been moved to the sides of the path in portrait-perfect positions. Jimmy stops abeam a huge rock and proudly explains how he moved this boulder all by himself. There's no way a 76-year-old man could move this boulder. There's no way I could move this boulder. But Jimmy doesn't lie.

Logs with a covering of bright-green moss parallel the trail. These too were placed in their respective positions by John and his friends. The trail is very narrow, just barely wide enough for quads in most places, but it's perfectly landscaped by its architects. Giant trees, cliffs, and boulders border the sides of the trail. The center of the route has short stumps, cut off just below the clearance limit of bulletproof quad undercarriages. I start counting center-of-trail stumps, realizing that blazing this trail must have taken enormous effort, accompanied by the buzz of chainsaws for months. John explains that they followed an old logging railroad in most places, but when it gets even rougher, he notes: "The logging railroad ended back there. It was a battle in this stretch."

We pause at a sharp curve, and John asks me to inspect a giant first-growth cedar tree that's devoid of branches but still standing tall. It stretches upward so high that it protrudes well above the surrounding forest canopy. It's at least 100 feet tall, and there are several of these "old growth" trees left behind by loggers. John appreciates large trees: "These cedars would make a skookum float."

In one of the many ruts in the trail, there's charcoal-black mud with old quad tracks from previous days. Some of the ruts are so deep that I'm convinced Margy's low-slung quad will bottom out (bigger quads have greater ground clearance). I try straddling one of the tracks with the left wheel on the center-raised section of the path and the other wheel on the right edge of the trail. It works, and I proceed slowly, passing over a muddy rut with clearly defined bear tracks – large, distinct, fresh bear tracks.

We come to a stream with a steep-sloped approach and an even steeper upslope on the other side. I watch John go through slowly in four-wheel drive. Watching his path is wise, since it gives me guidance on what route to use. For me, with limited two-wheel traction, a slow climb up the other side won't suffice. So I do what John always recommends – I "give 'er hell," power through the stream, and lean full forward as I spurt up the other side. John raises a pumped fist, and I'm ecstatic to be praised for my driving skills by an expert.

The going is tough now. We proceed slowly. That gives John the opportunity to break off a few overhanging branches, preening the trail even further. He does this everywhere he goes, whether it's his trail or not. Improving the trails for everyone is an indicator of character strength. I've seen John come to a total stop, hop off his quad, and move a rock to help the next guy coming through on another day. I find myself emulating this act of kindness, but most branches I try to break merely bend and whip back at me. John, in contrast, knows which breakable branches to select for minimal use of energy.

John stops, and I pull up behind him. He stands and twists toward me.

"This is the tough part," he says with a gesture forward. I can see the downslope ahead, and John confirms this is the part he's not sure I can handle.

"Let's take a look at it," I say, wanting to give it a try, if he'll let me. Bro is standing in his passenger box now, fully stretched. He only stands this way when the ride is roughest. We're approaching the rough spot, and I'm convinced Bro recognizes this part of the trail. He's been here before, and he's getting ready.

When we arrive at the edge, John says I can try the descent but that I should be prepared to use both brakes (the rear only when absolutely necessary), and to take it very slow. He really doesn't have to worry about me speeding.

It doesn't look scary, but I know my judgment is limited. I also know I can stop in mid-descent and hand the vehicle over to John. The plan is for John to lead so I can see his selected path. Then I'll follow (but not too close), and Jimmy will bring up the rear.

I start slowly down the winding, rocky, rutted slope, following John's exact path as much as possible. He points to a hairpin curve ahead that almost flipped Jimmy (on a much heftier quad than mine) several weeks ago. He has already warned me about the curve, so he merely points, and I understand. I notice this sharp bend is edged by a small log that acts like a perceptual guardrail. It wouldn't stop a bicycle, but it provides an attractive foreground portrait for the valley below.

I'm past Jimmy's curve, and now the trail is even steeper – straighter, but steeper. I'm in first-gear, idle-power with both brakes fully applied, and I'm still sliding downward. But it's a controlled skid (sort of), and then I'm past the steepest part. It's amazing how good the human eye is at judging slight differences in gradient. I know that I've got it made. John looks over his shoulder, and there's a broad grin on his face. His job as a teacher has paid dividends; and I'm going to live to tell about it.

The bottom of the slope leads to a turnoff that has been landscaped to allow ATVs to either proceed farther on the trail or curve downward along a gentle slope to the lake below. We make the turn and wind down a groomed path to a turn-around area at the edge of the lake. There's a fire ring, stacked wood, and a carved bench. You could be in Banff National Park; but you're not.

Jimmy is excited and full of energy to start fishing. I'm exhausted and need a second lunch to revive myself and calm down. I've just expended the best kind of nervous energy available to man.

John, Jimmy, and Bro strike out on the path around the lake that leads to an awaiting raft. John carries the 2.5 horsepower outboard motor that was strapped to Jimmy's front quad rack.

I finish my sandwich and start down the narrow path. When I finally catch up with John, he's waiting alone in the path just short of the raft. John without Bro is an unusual sight. The outboard motor is in a dirt pile near a large log. It lies where John flung it when the bee attack began.

Jimmy had walked along the log leading to the raft without noticing the beehive. Bro followed, and stirred up the hive further. Some of the bees followed Bro, who nearly knocked Jimmy off the log as he leaped past (Bro has suffered run-ins with bees before). Then the rest of the swarm turned on John. That's when he flung the motor and made a hasty retreat.

While letting the situation calm down a bit, John explains to me that a bear has already attacked the hive for its honey. Once he points it out, I can see the freshly clawed area of the log. He expects the bear to return tonight to finish off the job when the bees are in their hive in their nighttime lethargic stupor.

After the bees settle down a bit, John carefully retrieves the motor, and we hastily slip around the hive the best we can. The log is the only route to the raft, but somehow we make it without a sting.

Jimmy is impatiently waiting on the raft, his fishing pole ready, and the raft untied. John plops the small motor onto the hand-carved transom (a marvel of woodworking art), and we quickly pole our way outward from the shore. Bro looks back over his shoulder nervously, anticipating another bee attack.

The raft is an engineering masterpiece. Seven 1-foot diameter logs are strapped together, with expertly constructed crossbeams, a plywood floor in two strategic locations, and three stump chairs. The bow is of straight plow-water design, so the small outboard barely propels us forward, but it seems like pure luxury to me. Huck Finn and his friends are goin' fishin'!

"What's the name of this lake?" I ask. I never follow a map when traveling with John. The map in his mind leads us everywhere.

"I don't think it has a name," he replies. "We call it Trestle Lake, because of the old train tracks."

Certainly a lake this large isn't unnamed. Upon returning home, I check our route on a map. I'm able to retrace our path, although the smaller trails are not on the chart. Thus, after-the-fact, I can reconstruct our journey only roughly. The lake is a small blue loop on my map, and it has no name.

The water is warm, and the fishing not good by John's standards, but Jimmy catches a nice trout, and John has several bites on barbless hooks (our excuse for loosing several fish that day). Jimmy isn't a catch-and-release guy, so he cleans his fish on-the-spot for eating the same evening. And Bro chomps on one of those tasty (and disgusting) fish heads.

The trip out of the lake valley provides John more concern than entering. The climb looks like a grade that I can handle, but John isn't so sure. He decides to let me give it a try, but I can tell he has severe apprehensions. Before we start upward, he reminds me to lean forward as far as I can, and "give 'er hell." If I hit the brakes, he says, it should only be because I'm already at full power and slipping backwards.

The plan for this climb is to let Jimmy go first, then me, then John. If I get stuck, John can retrieve my quad and then backtrack for his. Before I start up the grade, John finds a small bird's nest, places it on the front rack of my quad, and says: "Don't lose this." I laugh, and as soon as he turns his back, I stow the nest under my foot, jammed against the splashguard.

John is right – it's beyond my ability. At Jimmy's curve, I roll backwards (too chicken to go to full power around that turn) and almost roll over the edge. The token edge-of-the-trail log stops my quad. When John catches up to me, I tell him that it's a coincidence – I had applied appropriate braking action and stopped just as I touched the log. He doesn't believe me, but I don't want to give up. (First person to climb this trail in two-wheel drive, and it's an American!)

John offers me one more chance, but this time I'd better not let up on the accelerator, or he's taking the quad out of the valley himself. His parting words are "Give 'er shit!"

I do. And I make it! There are two places where my front wheels go airborne, but I lean forward almost far enough to make it unnoticeable. But John does notice and advises me afterwards that I should not do that again.

When we pull out onto the flatter portion of the trail, John pulls up behind me, and I twist to talk to him. I thank him for one of the most memorable experiences of my life. I'm not sure it's quite that significant, but I'm sincere in my appreciation for this experience, and John smiles in a way that expresses true understanding.

Somehow the bird's nest has made it through the ride under my foot. It's a bit crushed against the splashguard, but I fluff the nest a bit and replace it on the forward rack as we ride along the final stretches of the railroad trail. When we come to a stop at the junction with the logging road, John motors up beside me. I point at the nest and say: "Check this out, John."

John stretches his neck to see between the black bars of my quad rack.

"No way!" he exclaims. For a brief moment, he seems to believe this nest had made it through the steep climb balanced on my front rack. But then I can see the expression on his face. He knows he has been temporarily fooled by me. But today he doesn't seem to mind.

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Chapter 13

Halcyon Days

Weeks before I depart California for Powell River, I buy my stash of reading material. I can imagine nothing scarier than being caught on the float with nothing to read, so I always overdo it.

During our pre-departure ritual, Margy and I ask each other repeatedly: "Are you packed yet?" We have almost nothing to pack, since our alternate life is ready-to-go the minute we land in Powell River, but it's an enjoyable reminder that the coveted departure date is near.

In my den, I keep a box of stuff that's headed to Canada, including passport, boat keys, and my cherished books. I'm often tempted to get a jump start on my reading material before departure, but I usually resist by keeping my Canada books separate from the U.S. material.

As one December trip approaches, my pile of books is composed primarily of mail-order Canadian coastal history books, including The Curve of Time by Muriel Blanchet and Upcoast Summers by Beth Hill. Both of these titles are summer adventure stories about recreational exploration of the British Columbia coast in decades long past. My float cabin will be an appropriate place to digest these adventures. It'll be fun to settle in during the cold, wet winter and dream of Canadian summer along the coast.

In several books I previously read, I noticed references to The Curve of Time, so I felt I should try this book just because it's considered a Canadian classic. Thus, I begin this book one stormy winter evening on the float. As the wind blows and the cabin sways, I'm mesmerized by the story of a woman and her children finding adventure and heritage while cruising coastal British Columbia. This tale of personal exploration transports me back to an era on the BC coast when population centers thrive and then die as fishing and the lumber industry peak and subsequently wane.

I realize for the first time what has not been obvious to me before: The BC coast has substantially fewer populated sites today than in past decades. How many regions in the world can claim that unusual statistic? And this entire coastline is available for close inspection by a time machine called "boat." But it's a different type of boat than my lake bow rider or my ocean runabout. That's when I decide I covet a long-range cruiser. It will have to be of classic design (the older the better), and if it looks like the boat of Muriel Blanchet or Jim Spilsbury, all the better.

The only problem I now face is convincing Margy that we need another boat. Margy is usually on frequency with me when it comes to new purchases. But this concept is a bit more elaborate than most, since we recently bought a new engine for our first boat and then purchased another boat. If we're going to spend big bucks on an even larger vessel, we should know a lot more about coastline cruising. But I'm ready to take the plunge without any further convincing; and I haven't even consulted John.

I leave The Curve of Time on Margy's nightstand. She plunges into the book promptly, and is hooked on the concept immediately. By the next week, as Christmas approaches, we find ourselves at the local bookstore buying books about draft hulls, dinghies, and diesel engines. We invite John for lunch at our cabin, so we can talk about this new project.

After lunch, I sit with John on the couch, squirming a bit. I try not to beat around the bush, but I do exactly that by first explaining to him there's something Margy and I have already decided upon, and we want his assistance. I simultaneously outline the concept of an ocean cruiser and try to convince John that our hasty decision is wise.

I worry that he'll consider this concept too costly. John is always looking out for my best interests, and he has (fortunately) stopped me from rash decisions that I later realized were half-baked. (There was that idea about leasing some airport property and building a hangar...) I'd hate to lose John's support on this idea, but it's also apparent that Margy and I have made up our minds in just a few days without even consulting him. Turning back from this decision will be difficult.

John listens to my reasoning (most of it irrational), nodding his head unconvincingly as I continue with boat purchase arguments. He listens patiently, and when I'm finally finished, he scrunches his face briefly and simply says: "Great idea."

John can't think of a better investment for us than an ocean-going cruiser. He possesses expertise on the subject that I hadn't previously noticed, although he hasn't cruised very far from Powell River. John knows boats inside and out, and one of his lifelong dreams is to explore the BC coast by boat. His immediate acceptance of the idea catches me by surprise. I had over-prepared for battle.

Of course, the boat will have to include a bed for John, adequate room for Bro, a command bridge (whatever that is), and a diesel engine. John acknowledges that trawler designs are beautiful, but we'll never be able to accept cruising at ten knots.

"That just isn't you," he says. "Rather than a displacement hull, you'll need a hull that planes.

I counter by noting that a trawler "is us" – we know what we want. A displacement hull design is what we desire and need.

For the next few days, it's point and counter-point, before Margy and I eventually realize that a trawler's displacement hull really isn't for us after all. How many times will it take to recognize that John knows us better than we know ourselves?

John wants to go big – really big. But that poses a variety of problems, ranging from the economics of the situation to a waiting list for moorage space at the local harbour. The waiting list for large berths is measured in years, although John has his ways of cutting through red tape. Still, we must keep things realistic and within budget. We finally convince John that we're looking for a "transitional" boat, one that will serve our needs for the next few years (and while our moorage seniority increases). You never really convince John of anything – you merely get him to accept your goals. In this case, he accepts our budget limit, and starts looking for the ideal transitional boat. He'll stop at nothing to find it.

* * * * *

New Year's Day brings a major evening storm, with southeast winds charging up the coastline, rattling the mast tackle on the sailboats in the harbour. That evening, Margy, John, and I sit before the gas fireplace in our condo, one block from the marina, listening to the clanging masts. I'm discouraged because we can't travel up the lake tonight. Bro is discouraged because John makes him wait in the truck.

We're discussing boat designs (per usual), only a few days after proposing the cruising boat concept for the first time. I ask John if we can visit the docks together one more time (we've walked the docks repeatedly the last few days), making a more accurate measurement of a particular boat that's listed for sale. This boat caught my attention immediately. I love its classic design, and it's big enough (I think), although John feels it's way underpowered. He also says it's too small, in both length and width, and lacks the essential command bridge (erroneously confused with a sunbridge by people like me).

I detest command bridges – so foo-foo looking and a break in the classic lines. Americans buy Bimini tops and command bridges. Real Canadians stick with designs like this beautiful, underpowered hardtop. The recently varnished teak on the aft deck shows clear evidence of the owner's attention to maintenance detail. I want this boat, and John is having a hard time talking me out of it.

Earlier that morning, I paced the length of the vessel with John, taking short steps to try to extract at least 22 feet. Without a tape measure, we're not sure of its exact length.

So out we go into the storm, two men, one woman, and a dog, to measure a boat that John isn't going to let me buy. We're dressed in our rain-gear (except Bro), and we're halfway to the marina (only two blocks down the hill) when we realize that none of us has the tape measure. I volunteer to go back for it, which I accomplish at a fast pace so Margy and John won't have to stand in the rain very long. As for Bro, the rain doesn't seem to phase him at all.

As I return with the measuring tape, I pause at the top of the hill overlooking the marina and observe Margy and John waiting for me near the dock gate. It's too dark to clearly identify them (Bro blends into the black night), but who else would be out in this weather? I've made good time coming back from the condo, so it's the proper opportunity to take a much-needed pee.

I crowd close to a private tree in the darkness above the docks, when I hear John yell through the rain:

"We see what you're doing."

Eagle-eyed John doesn't miss anything. I can visualize him pointing at me, while Margy struggles to see anything but darkness.

I meet them at the dock gate, with Bro pacing impatiently. I try to act like I'm not embarrassed, but it's only an act.. As soon as we open the gate, Bro charges down the incline, makes a hard right turn onto our dock finger, squats for his customary poop, and then charges onward. John gives his standard "Oh, no, not again," and then adds: "Let's just let it wash off in the rain."

We step over the poop pile, and continue to the boat that I've fallen in love with. We measure three times – I try to stretch the results from the repeated 20-foot 6-inch mark . ("Can't we include the anchor extension platform?") This boat will not be able to handle the seas that we need to anticipate, and the engine is undersized. I try to convince John that I'll be satisfied with this small motor, and I make him promise to take it for a test drive. Maybe he'll find it's adequately powered, considering the small hull.

Margy and I are still hung-up on a need to carry our giant kayak on our future cruiser (an idea later abandoned), and this boat looks like it could be modified to carry a kayak on top, with no command bridge to spoil the concept. John notes that there's an anchor light on the roof that can't be moved: "Regulations, you know." Since when is John ever hampered by regulations?

By now we're totally soaked, and Bro is shaking himself off on us to add to the agony. The wind is brisk, and the dock fingers are slippery. Masts clang louder in the wind, as we continue to walk the docks in the rain, looking for the perfect design. If we can just agree on what that design is, John can spend the next few weeks searching for our copy of it after we return to the States.

We trudge back and forth along the dock fingers in the rain. Bro runs before us from dock to dock, returning each time to shake himself off. Why waste wet shakes if no humans are present?

We inspect an older boat with classic designs, no command bridge, and made out of wood. John says wood is a dead end, and he's right (as usual). That's what we need to add to our plate – an old wooden boat that requires periodic caulking and timber-rot maintenance.

But slowly we're converging on the perfect boat. It may not be for sale here, but it exists somewhere on the Sunshine Coast. And to John, everything is for sale. You just need to know how to go about it.

We spend several hours on the docks that night, looking at boats in the rain. We revisit vessels that are known to be for sale and compare all of the designs. I ask a ton of questions. John has a ton of answers.

Over the next few weeks, after we've returned to California, John continues to walk the docks of the Sunshine Coast. He's so dedicated to the task that he even takes the dreaded ferry to Earls Cove and then the long drive to Gibsons. He calls me to report on potential boats, some less perfect than others, and none with the magic combination of features.

By now, he has almost convinced me that a command bridge is a necessity (it is), and that becomes inherently problematic. Finding a command bridge on a boat in our size range is nearly as hard as finding a diesel engine on a boat in our price range. John reads every boat-trading magazine, walks all of the local docks, talks to friends, and runs up an extensive phone bill to Vancouver Island.

I ask him again to test drive the too-small boat, and he finally relents: "It's a dog, so underpowered that it wouldn't even get up on plane. I told you so." Issue closed.

One January night, John phones again. He has found the perfect boat. And it's right in Westview Harbour. It's not really for sale, but he's going to figure out how to buy it anyway. Margy and I say "Yes," sight unseen. If John says it's the perfect boat, then it's the perfect boat.

The boat is already sold to a buyer in Victoria, but John reminds the seller that a sale to us eliminates the delivery process, and he sweetens the deal by suggesting a slightly higher price. He justifies this as ethical under Canadian boat trading standards. We close the deal and mail the check.

John's friend, Doug, assists in this purchase. Doug knows boats too, and they both agree this is the ideal cruiser for us. Doug has some photos to send via email. That would be nice – to see the boat we've invested in so confidently. With the pictures due the next day, I ask John a few questions about the boat. I inquire whether it has a name. John hesitates, and then says he isn't sure. He can't remember. When is the last time that John couldn't remember something?

Doug sends the photos to Margy at her office, and she forwards them to me for nearly simultaneous viewing. The first transmission of the photos comes through corrupted, and I anxiously await the second attempt. This time the photos are flawless. But the boat isn't.

It's a classic design, but with no command bridge. I had assumed that John would not purchase a boat for us without that feature, but I'm still on the "unconvinced" list regarding command bridges, so there's no harm done. The boat is obviously a converted fishing trawler, and doesn't that make it a displacement hull? Looking closer, this boat looks like it's made of wood. The name Heather is painted on the side. In a stern-view image, there's stuff growing all over the leg. This boat looks like it's in the process of sinking. What do I really know about John anyway? Is there a way to stop payment on my check?

Is this Doug's idea of a joke? This isn't our boat, is it? I call John, and when he answers, he immediately asks if I like the boat.

"I like the classic design a lot," I say truthfully.

"And?" he asks.

"Well, I'm not sure if this is a joke. Is it a joke, John?" I ask apprehensively.

"Why do you think I couldn't remember the boat's name?"

"It's not Heather?" I'm hoping the answer is "No."

"Your boat's name is Halcyon Days," says John.

At that moment, I have no idea what "Halcyon" means. (I later look it up in the dictionary – it means "calm" or "tranquil.") But at that instant, a flood of relief overwhelms me.

"John, that's a beautiful name for a boat."

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Chapter 14

Off the Grid in Mr. Bathtub

Leaving my cabin under any circumstances is difficult, although there's never been an overnight instance on the chuck that made me regret being aboard my ocean-going Bayliner. It's getting there that takes internal coaxing. That initial hesitation is partly related to the bag-drag that accompanies an overnighter on the ocean: cabin-to-Campion, boat-to-car, car-to-Bayliner, and then all in reverse at the end of the trip. A similar hesitation occurs when preparing to launch the dinghy from the stern.

You'd think preparation for a dinghy launch would be a simple affair, but that's not true. I utilize an extensive pre-departure checklist, but I seldom experience a launch with Mr. Bathtub where I don't forget something. Sometimes an item that would have been best left behind is the outboard motor.

Mr. Bathtub's three horsepower Yamaha can be more trouble than it's worth. The dinghy is a fine short-distance rowing craft, but it's not a long-distance vessel simply because the outboard is installed.

My early adventures with Mr. Bathtub should have been enough to prevent me from taking to the water with the outboard motor and two people. The added weight of the outboard is significant in this craft, so rowing without the motor is much safer. But one evening, in remote Bute Inlet, I violate my own rules.

We anchor in one of the few protected coves in Bute Inlet. At almost exactly sunset, with high tide only minutes away, a sudden breeze appears, swirling every which way. Simultaneously, a mysterious dark line develops on the water about a mile offshore. I assume both the breeze and dark line (now moving toward the shore rapidly) are associated with the approaching high tide, but I've never experienced anything so pronounced near slack water. I later conclude these conditions were associated with flow reversal at nearby Arran Rapids, minutes before the high tide reached our anchorage.

Flotsam in the water heads our way with the tide line, and herring are jumping all around the Bayliner. It reminds me of the strange stirrings that sometimes accompany the onset of an earthquake and are clearly identified only after the quake. To this day, these few minutes before high tide in Bute represent one of the strangest feelings I've ever experienced.

When the tide line hits the cove, it's far from gentle. The Bayliner moves up and down so dramatically that I think we've broken anchor. I yell for Margy to prepare to exit the cove, and I rush to the command bridge to start the engine. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the water settles again, but the herring continue to jump even more actively than before the moment of high tide. I've read about salmon following the herring, and this is Bute Inlet, so maybe here is a chance for my first salmon.

Everyone brags about their salmon catch. I, at least, am quick to admit that in my two previous years of trying, I've neither caught nor likely experienced even a bite from a salmon. But this might be the time and place. Of course, salmon live in deep waters (I believe), but the water just offshore this cove is deep, so I yell to Margy to join me in the dinghy as quickly as possible. These herring won't stick around much longer.

We push off from the Bayliner's swim grid in minimum time. Everything is already aboard, including the outboard motor, since we made a short trip to shore earlier in the day for a hike up the trail to Leask Lake. I open up the throttle and plow out of the cove and around the corner to a prospective rocky bay. The total time from the moment of suspected broken anchorage to fishing-line-in-the-water in the rocky bay is approximately ten minutes. Herring are nearly leaping into Mr. Bathtub.

Fishing from this dinghy is close to hazardous with two people aboard. Just casting a line is enough to move things out of balance. I'm pretty excited at this moment, so my weight shifts are more pronounced than normal. I toss my lure toward shore, expecting at least 100 feet of water in this cliff-like setting. Instead, my spoon almost immediately hits bottom. It's only about ten feet deep. A salmon strikes my lure immediately.

Just like on TV, the salmon leaps from the water and poses for a photo (but we aren't prepared to click the shutter). This is going to be an exciting fight to remember. Then the fish charges straight away from shore, and directly under Mr. Bathtub. This is going to be a fight that might put us all in the water.

Margy is yelling in excitement: "You've got a salmon!" After two years of nothing, this is the moment.

I too am yelling: "He's going under the boat!"

I know you can lose a fish if he gets under the boat. I also know this fish might be nearly as big as our dinghy, and will be the obvious winner in a race of power. Mr. Bathtub is going for the ride of his life.

It's just like those cartoons – a giant fish taking a boat for a ride. This isn't a giant salmon, but he's pretty good size, and Mr. Bathtub seems punier than ever before. We go for a short but exciting trip.

I don't have much line in the water; thus, the fight is short, and I have the salmon alongside Mr. Bathtub in only a few minutes. Of course, I have no net, and the hook is barbless, so the chances of getting this fish aboard the dinghy are small. Additionally, I'm not sure Mr. Bathtub can hold all three of us (one of whom will be flopping around).

This salmon is beautiful, still full of life and thrashing against the side of the dinghy. The almost glowing greenish-blues of its scales are imprinted in my memory. We immediately decide to release the fish, returning the salmon to the sea and its friends. This decision has less to do with Mr. Bathtub's limitations than what I decide is right for the moment. (Later I wished I had kept the fish.) I grasp the hook with my pliers, twist slightly, and the barbless hook slips effortlessly from the salmon's jaw. The fish kicks away and downward with a glorious splash.

Although we have no tape measure or weighing scale, Margy gets some photos while the fish in still on my line beside the dinghy. We later utilize these pictures to determine the salmon's dimensions, using the fishing lure for comparative measurement. It's a 15-pound coho, about thirty inches long, with its snout already curving in anticipation of the spawning season. Thirty inches isn't large by Bute standards, but it's the biggest fish I've ever caught. In comparison to Mr. Bathtub, the boat outsizes the fish by a ratio of slightly over two-to-one.

* * * * *

I avoid stern line anchorages. Often, stern lines are used in crowded spots where swinging isn't appropriate, so a stern line usually indicates crowds. And, as far as I'm concerned, the changing view from a swinging rode has its benefits. The extra time and effort involved in taking a stern line to shore is a major factor in my attitude. Usually, when I arrive at an overnight location, I'm ready to call it a day.

Of course, there are spots where the only safe anchorage is via stern line, even with no other boats present, and Mr. Bathtub is essential for stern line localities. At such a location in Tenedos Bay, I decide to deploy the dinghy without its outboard motor on a particularly bay-crowded summer day. Rowing to shore while dragging a stern line is more effort than it sounds. After sliding the rope around a shoreline tree, I head back to the Bayliner, now meeting stiff resistance from the trailing line dragging against the tree. I'm almost back to my starting point when a nearby boater appears on his deck to notify me (yelling across the water so everyone nearby hears) that my forward anchor is over his anchor line. I doubt he's correct, and I don't look forward to moving, but this is no place for a confrontation. Back to shore I row again – Mr. Bathtub and me on another round-trip.

I crank up the Bayliner and depart the cove, inspect some other prospective locations in Tenedos, and realize my now-evident grumpiness won't make for an enjoyable stay. I depart the bay with a sense of disgust, and find an uncrowded and picturesque stern line location (and another mission for Mr. Bathtub) at Mink Island. Often, the best locations you find in life are spots you never intend to visit.

* * * * *

During a summer visit to Chatterbox Falls in Princess Louisa Inlet (not a wise place to visit in the summer, if you prefer empty anchorages), we find a location that seems fine for swinging on our anchor. John is with us on this trip, and his expert eye agrees with me that this is a good spot to swing without interference. But it turns out to be another source of anchoring frustration. After our rode is fully extended, an American (I really don't know that, but I always refer to problematic boaters as Americans) appears on his nearby boat deck. He announces, typically louder than necessary, that we're within his swing radius. It doesn't look like a valid accusation to me (or John), but I prefer to quickly exit. (John is ready to take on the "American.") After a long day battling the waves in Jervis Inlet, I'm ready to call it a day, so I'm pleased when John agrees to move a short distance and take a stern line to shore along the busy Chatterbox shoreline. He and Bro hop aboard Mr. Bathtub, and promptly and efficiently drag the line to shore, secure it around a tree, and are back in what seems like less than five minutes. It would have been even quicker if they hadn't stopped for Bro to take a poop.

* * * * *

One of Mr. Bathtub's most unique experiences occurs in False Creek in the heart of Vancouver. I anchor in this busy area near Granville Island, surrounded by high-rise buildings. It's a far cry from the remoteness of Bute Inlet.

There are a lot of places to explore by dinghy as I await the arrival of Margy from nearby Vancouver Airport. She'll be joining me via taxi in a few hours. With time to kill, Mr. Bathtub and I explore the extent of False Creek, dodging the water taxis and stopping at Granville Island's public dock. There's a three-hour moorage limit at this busy tourist trap, and a meter-maid (meter-man) checks on violators. The dock is packed, but there's always room for Mr. Bathtub. I tuck him in tightly between another dinghy (far superior in size) and a small stern-drive cruiser, and I begin pushing through the tourist crowds in the Granville market. I sit on a bench above the dock, munching on a cinnamon roll, while the meter-man makes his rounds below me. He stops at each boat, writes down the registration number, and notes the time in his parking log. When he reaches Mr. Bathtub, I watch him kneel down (no registration number), probably deciding how to document this dinghy on his paperwork. I assume he sees the name I've stenciled in bold blue letters on the hull and scribbles "Mr. Bathtub" in his log.

The biggest excitement for Mr. Bathtub on this trip is undoubtedly when it comes time to pick up Margy. Two people in this dinghy are a maximum load. Today the outboard motor, is on the transom, so that definitely puts us near maximum gross weight. When Margy arrives with her backpack and a small suitcase, I sense the dinghy's anticipation. Mr. Bathtub has never carried a suitcase before. This is a real transport mission.

We carefully load the suitcase, backpack, and ourselves into Mr. Bathtub, balancing the load as best we can, and push off the dock. I can sense the dinghy's excitement. In the background, I swear I hear Mr. Bathtub chanting: "A mission, a mission! I have a mission!"

* * * * *

One of my favourite anchorages, although not remote, is Squirrel Cove on Cortes Island. Maybe it's a favourite spot because it's one of the first places I anchor by myself, and maybe it's because of its natural beauty. Unfortunately, Squirrel Cove isn't a secret destination. The cove holds nearly a hundred boats on a busy summer day, so privacy isn't easily achieved.

It's also not remote. As I enter the cove, a wooden sign reminds me that Marilyn's Salmon Shack is available on VHF Channel 68. However, as many times as I've visited Squirrel Cove, Marilyn has a schedule that limits the chances of eating a tasty salmon burger except in the height of the tourist season of July and August. Those are the busy months I prefer to avoid.

A visit to the cove's floating bakery (on-again, off-again in recent years) is even tougher to coordinate. One busy July afternoon, I'm greeted with: "You're not here for baked goods, are you?" No, I just happened to stop on the float marked "Bakery" for a social visit. The baker sounds like she's ending a long day and isn't interested in selling anything, noting I'm out of luck unless I have a previous reservation for a pie. I guess those pesky boaters maxed her out. Many Canadian small businesses seem determined to avoid making any money.

Mr. Bathtub always goes in the water at Squirrel Cove. The cafe at the other "Squirrel Cove" (the village two miles away, boasting a dock at the store and several small shops) is a perfect adventure for the dinghy, although nearly calm water is necessary. Usually the conditions cooperate, and I motor over to the main dock near the store or use the small high-tide-only dock near the cafe. It's quite a journey for Mr. Bathtub. I carry a gas can, since the outboard's tank is too small for the round-trip of nearly an hour.

One July evening, the cafe is unusually crowded, and I get the last table on the outside deck. After I order, the waitress asks me if I'll allow a young couple to join me. I've eaten in a lot of restaurants in a lot of places, but never have strangers asked to sit with me. I simply must say "Yes" and meet these people.

The couple is visiting Cortes Island on a working vacation with a youth humanitarian organization. They think I'm a local (sort of) and that I look like a fisherman. At the time, I'm filthy from several days in the sun. On this trip, I also carry limited clothing. In fact, I'm wearing an inside-out T-shirt so the dirt doesn't show so bad. To conceal the damage, I wear my olive-drab life vest, unzipped but covering most of the dirt. I'm unshaven, and my hair is in need of a haircut and at least a comb. Maybe that's how they think fishermen look.

When they learn my true background (I tell them about Los Angeles), they are even more intrigued. I share some of my recent overnight boating adventures. They didn't know there's another Squirrel Cove, where the Bayliner is anchored, and they are adequately impressed when I tell them I motored over in my dinghy for dinner. I point at the high-water-only dock, noting that the dinghy is out of sight on the other side.

I finish my dinner before the couple even receives their main dishes, so we share our goodbyes, and I depart for the dock. I'm sure they are watching as I pull away and throttle up (all three horsepower) for the trip to the other Squirrel Cove. Mr. Bathtub is in his glory – my wave to the cafe deck is returned by the young couple. On the other hand (I don't tell Mr. Bathtub this), I bet they are amazed by the tiny size of the dinghy. They probably remark that it looks like a bathtub.

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Chapter 15

Never Saddle a Dead Horse

I 've learned more from John than from anyone I've ever known. The finer points of what I've learned have been by observation. He's a wealth of knowledge, but just watching him at work or play is the biggest learning experience of all. Like most of the area's local residents, John grew up in a natural world and learned natural ways. Often those ways are more productive than the technology of the city.

On a ferry trip to Comox, we leave the lower vehicle deck to climb to the open-air seats and watch Powell River fade in the distance. The only reason John agrees to leave Bro below deck is because Margy is in the car pampering the perpetually spoiled dog. As we round the corner near the top of the deck, John points to a fellow with a red baseball cap just disappearing into the enclosed seating area.

"That's my shop teacher from high school," says John.

It's a small world in Powell River, and the ferry is an extension of the town (less noticeably, an extension of larger Comox and Courtney on the other side). Since we aren't technically in Powell River any more, it seems surprising to see someone John knows almost immediately after entering the ferry, especially during the summer when tourists outnumber locals.

After a few minutes, I leave John and climb downstairs to relieve Margy so she can go up for some sea air. When she returns to the car a half hour later, John isn't with her. He has run into a friend who runs the Queen of Burnaby's engine room, and has gone down to investigate the giant diesels. He would never pass up an opportunity to learn more about engines that propel a big boat. And, of course, he knows the diesel engineer.

After arriving on Vancouver Island, we put in two full days of kayaking. John and Bro help Margy and me launch south of Nanaimo, and pick us up at a location north of the city the next day. Then we head back to the ferry dock at Little River (Comox). While awaiting the ferry, a man exits his car directly in front of us and walks to the waiting room (few ever wait there, but that's where the soda machines are located). "That's my math teacher from high school," says John.

Neither of his teachers are in the right place to greet at the moment we see them. I tell John I should have run after his shop teacher the previous day and asked him if he knew what his student had done with himself after he left school. Then I would tell him how John has, among other things, completely designed and built the float cabin I reside in, including all of the carpentry, plumbing, heating, electrical components, and roofing. I bet he'd be extremely pleased to hear how well John's shop skills have developed. I also thought about approaching his math teacher, but then I reconsidered.

In reality, John's skills are nearly universal. Even his math is quick – but his hammer is quicker. His most unique skills, in my opinion, involve the science and engineering of float cabins. There are not a lot of leading scientists and engineers in this field.

When John provides me with some photos of the construction of Number 3 (my float cabin), I'm amazed at the intricate structure within the foundation of the float.

The cedar logs are lashed together with steel cable. John had some help from his family (his dad is an electrical wizard), but the float and cabin construction was pretty much a one-man operation on a very grand scale. John purchased an existing float that would meet the needs of the new cabin, but the lashing of the logs wasn't to his standards. This was "Number 3," and two previous float foundations and cabins had provided a lot of experimentation and refinement. So he completely disassembled the float and started all over. Most of the existing cedar logs were reusable, but the float was redesigned from scratch.

John's youth near Trail, BC, included a series of small buildings he constructed with some help from his brothers and friends. You could call them "forts" – don't all boys build forts? – although some of these structures were much more extensive. The final efforts of his childhood construction resulted in a full-size log cabin in his family's backyard.

During high school in Powell River, he couldn't resist constructing a cabin on floats on one of the few lakes in Canada where such structures proliferate. He chose a site on Powell Lake north of Three-Mile Bay, and began construction of a small float from barrels. Using that foundation, he raised a tiny (by his later standards) cabin. The construction process was the most exciting part; after that, visits to the cabin site lessened with time. One day he arrived at his float after a few weeks absence to find the cabin occupied by a local man. Float sites were like that in those days: Build one anywhere you like, or move in if it looks abandoned. The man apologized for the misunderstanding and turned the cabin back over to John. He now has his own float cabin in Three-Mile Bay.

My cabin (designated Number 3, since the original shack on barrels isn't included in John's numbering system) was built next to Number 1, his first full-size float cabin on the lower east shore. Construction began with the complete disassembly and refurbishment of an old float foundation, a major structural project.

When completed, the float cabin was towed to Chippewa Bay, but the waves and winds were not to John's liking. Within a few weeks, he towed the float to a new location adjacent to Goat Island, less than a mile north of our present location. At this site, there was a waterfall he hoped to harness as a running water supply. The lack of sunlight at this location (Goat at its back and a mountain directly across the channel) precipitated the final move to Hole in the Wall.

Three relocations in six months. The final move was just prior to the moratorium that now prohibits let's-move-today excursions. You can no longer move cabins at will, since sites are now registered with the province. The government thus believes it's regulating the location of all float cabins. Of course, it's been quite awhile since anyone has seen a government official checking cabin sites on this lake. An inspector might be surprised by what he finds.

Under the current moratorium regarding new cabin sites, the 200 cabins tethered to shore are (for now) the conclusion of growth for the lake's float cabin history. Cabins can be moved to other registered sites (one departed the back of the Hole in 2003), but no new sites are being approved. A float cabin can also be built to replace a cabin at an existing registered site. Overall, the moratorium attempts to limit the total number of float sites on Powell Lake.

When John decided to refurbish Number 2, he tied it to his small boat and attempted to tow the float cabin south. Almost anything that floats can be towed with a boat. Once you get it moving, it just keeps going until you attempt to stop it. But it doesn't necessarily move very fast. That was John's situation, and it looked like it would be an all-day job. When he (slowly) entered First Narrows outside the Hole, a southbound tug observed his struggle and offered to grab his towline. Down the lake went Number 2 behind a full boom of logs, with John's boat lashed to the cabin for a free ride. His "lucky day" is how John describes it.

Cabins still move around a bit on the lake (such as the refurbishment of Number 2). It always looks like an exciting experience as you pass these floating homes in mid-channel. Since it's an all-day ride behind a small boat, mom is often seen on the deck cooking supper on the barbecue as her home floats along. In some cases, it turns into a family picnic and all-day celebration.

As I motor past one moving cabin, a young boy resourcefully flies a kite behind his slow moving home. The day is calm (a good day to move your home), but the towing speed is perfect for kite flying.

Float cabin construction and maintenance is a lost art, but John certainly hasn't lost a bit of it. Local standards for float design are handed down from generation to generation. There are lots of ways to lash logs together, but John insists it be done by his standards. He isn't critical of the other methods, except to say you'll never find one of his floats constructed that way.

I assisted John with a float refurbishment he worked on for a friend in 2003. Lashing the brow logs together with thick steel cable was a particularly demanding task. A small hydraulic jack was used to tighten the cable, and railroad spikes secured the steel bridle at each loop around the logs. It's a process that combines sophisticated stitching expected from a seamstress and brute force associated with a lumberjack. During this float refurbishment, adjustments were needed to the cedar cross-members, and that was the first time I observed a chainsaw operating underwater. Only the blade was underwater, of course, but the spray and sound were spectacular. Nothing stops John when a chainsaw is involved.

* * * * *

During my first year at our cabin, I pose with John for a picture I want to show to my friends back home. At the time, John is building a kayak dock for me, so I grab his chainsaw and pose with him to show my friends how much of a local I've become. Chainsaws are part of life in Powell River. The photo is entirely for effect.

In my mind, as that photo is snapped, there's a division between where I am and where I want to be, and a chainsaw stands on that dividing line. Realistically, I don't plan to cross that boundary. I expect to own a chainsaw as much as I expect to adopt a firearm. They are both ideal for some people, and I understand that, but they're far from where I'll ever tread.

Then one day I call John from Los Angeles and ask a favour. I request that he take some of my project funds and purchase a chainsaw. I'm as shocked as John by my request, but I really want such a tool. I suppose there's some ego involved, but it's more than that. Sure, a chainsaw will make me feel like I've arrived, even if I never use it, but it's a practical decision as well. Logs and sticks make their way into our natural swimming pool nearly every day, and flotsam snags itself on our various dock extensions.

I haul the irregular hunks of wood aboard the float and pile them on the edges of the deck. The accumulating wood needs to be dealt with; it represents part of my winter's supply of firewood. It isn't fair to ask an aquatic engineer (John) to constantly spend his valuable time cutting my firewood.

My request for a chainsaw isn't favourably received. Do I realize how dangerous chainsaws are, when placed in the wrong hands (mine)? Yes, that's what makes the dividing line so distinct, and that's what makes my decision to step over it so surprising. I'm a wimp and proud of it, and a chainsaw doesn't fit that image.

But the other side of John's personality makes it hard for him to refuse. He loves the smell of sawdust in the morning. And I think he uses chain oil for shaving lotion. Okay, he'll buy the saw for me, but I have to promise to await his thorough training before starting it up and engaging the chain the first time.

When I arrive at the cabin in June, there it sits in the den – a bright orange engine shroud with a similarly glowing plastic chain cover over a 15-inch bar. It's a sight to behold. Sitting adjacent to the saw is a thick instruction booklet and a pile of adjustment tools. I immediately begin studying the manual, yellow marker in hand. The first ten pages include over forty warning paragraphs, accompanied by a series of diagrams with a thick red "X" over them, indicating these particular maneuvers can kill you or at least toss a spinning chain with metal teeth into your head. There's nothing in the manual about the fancy drop-start airborne maneuver I've watched John perform. Obviously, that procedure is entirely out of the question for beginners.

I understand almost nothing after reading the manual, but I recognize I can start the engine without engaging the chain, so that seems like a safe place to begin. I'll hold true to my promise not to engage the chain until John provides me with my training. Starting the saw without allowing the chain to rotate seems safe enough.

The fuel must be mixed with oil, and the ratio seems critical, so I take the oil John has provided with the saw (cute little bottles) and prepare the proper mixture. I carefully review the eight pages involving starting the engine, including two pages regarding preparing to start and eight additional red-X warnings.

I immediately flood the engine. After that, it's entirely downhill. I try every position of the mixture lever, and pull and pull on the starter rope until my shoulder is numb. By the time John arrives on the scene, I'm convinced there's something wrong with the engine. And by the time I demonstrate the lack of anything approaching ignition to John, he too is frustrated. ("Here, give me that thing!")

Try as he might, not even John can start this saw. He removes the spark plug – "Pretty wet," he notes suspiciously. He dries and replaces the plug, fiddles with the mixture, pulls and pulls on the starter rope some more, and finally gives up.

"It sure seems busted," he says, and off he goes to the local chain saw dealer.

John is never shy regarding complaints about new equipment that's not working properly. The dealer takes the saw into the back of the shop and finds the combustion chamber is so flooded that the piston is suffering liquid lock. The dealer advises him: "You better show that fellow how to start this thing the right way."

John shows me how to start the saw by completely disregarding the manual's outlined procedures, and it has properly started rather consistently ever since. After he provides me with some basic safety briefings (more understandable than the manual), I attack some of the wood lying around the deck. But first, I need to construct a small sawhorse to handle the firewood.

The sawhorse doesn't have to look spectacular, but I need a functional support for small logs and boards that will allow me to cut the wood into chunks that will fit into the fireplace. There's already a too-large sawhorse provided by John on the transition float, and I need only to reduce its legs to size, using the new chainsaw, and punch a few nails into the cross-members.

It's a good thing I decide the sawhorse doesn't have to look great, because it ends up as a mismatched series of boards. One leg is too short, so I cut some more. Now the other leg is too short. After a series of cuts to even the legs, the sawhorse is much smaller than intended. In the first few minutes of use, it looks even worse, as the chainsaw flops out of control and cuts its way through the sawhorse's crossbeam, almost totally destroying it.

That first day with the saw, I cut a lot of lumber, and I've never sweat so much in my life. It's a hot day, and I'm determined to wear the appropriate safety gear: long-sleeve heavy shirt and pants for flying wood chips, safety-toed boots, hat, ear defenders (noisy bugger), heavy gloves, and safety goggles. That's a hot outfit, even for a cool day. It's a sweltering outfit for a hot day. By the end of a few hours of cutting, I'm exhausted. The noise of the chainsaw, especially as it buzzes through thick wood, makes me into a tired amateur lumberjack with a splitting headache and a sweaty body. It isn't as much fun as I expected.

As I lay down the saw at the end of the session, I know the residents of the neighboring cabins have heard the noise. The sound of a chainsaw is common here, and it carries a long way. It marks a true local. That's me – I've crossed the line.

I need to make one last cut on a log that rolled away from my cutting area. It sits temporarily forgotten on the edge of the transition float. I've already shutdown the engine, but haven't yet removed my lumberjack uniform, so it'll be a quick job to finish. When I start the chainsaw, the clutch is barely engaged (it shouldn't be engaged at all), and the chain rotates slowly. That's not particularly dangerous, but it will cut through the plastic saw cover, if you have it installed. Since I've already begun the process of stowing my equipment, the orange plastic cover is in place as I restart the saw, the chain rotates, and the plastic shreds itself.

The next time John visits, I see him eyeballing the battle-damaged plastic cover and the miniature sawhorse with the nearly severed crossbeam. Graciously, he doesn't say a thing.

* * * * *

I always enjoy it when John asks me for assistance. It's almost always the other way around, so I'm pleased to help when I can. John handles most things solo, even the largest mechanical projects. He routinely replaces cabin tether cables himself, but I don't know how that's possible. One day while visiting me, he asks if I'll help him with a cable adjustment at Number 2. We hop aboard his boat (the three of us, that is – don't forget Bro), and motor across the Hole to his cabin.

One of his shore cables is binding against a brow log cable, and the abrasion is going to eventually destroy both cables. The plan is to detach the main tether cable at the float end, reroute its connection to the brow log (John prefers heavy boom log chains for this), and then reattach the cable. It sounds simple, but the process is complex.

The cable can't be detached without the cabin immediately repositioning itself. Float cabins are typically secured to the shore by seven-eighth inch (or three-quarter inch) cables at each corner of the float. Remove any of these cables and the cabin will shift. So first we need to install a long rope from the corner of the cabin to the shore, take up the tension otherwise held by the cable (not an easy task), and then remove the cable clamps. Then the cable can be disconnected and rerouted, and finally the cable tension must be applied once again.

A sagging cable to shore is very heavy (nearly 200 pounds), although it's distributed over its 50-foot length. Getting the cable tight enough without a winch (which we don't have today) is nearly impossible. But we plan to reattach the cable with some expected cabin shift after the rope tension is released. John will return another day with a winch to tighten the cable further.

Near the end of what we'll be able to accomplish today, John begins to reattach the two cable clamps (one for backup) and tighten their bolts. I watch what I've seen him do so often when tying knots in ropes. He stares at the rope (the cable in this case) and mentally imagines the knot (the clamp position in this instance). After a pause while he visualizes the finished product, he ties the knot quickly (connects the clamp). As he goes through this mental process with the cable, now looped through the heavy boom log chain, he talks quietly to himself.

"What?" I ask.

"Oh, just talking to myself."

"About what?"

"Never saddle a dead horse."

"I don't get it," I say.

He explains there's a production bend in the cable clamp, and the strongest hold occurs if that bend (saddle) is positioned to avoid the end of the cable. The saddle should be on the portion of the cable extending outward from the cabin rather than the cable's end.

"So here's the saddle," he notes, pointing to the bend in the clamp. "And here's the dead end of the cable. Never saddle a dead horse."

Where he learned this, I don't know. But I do know there are only a few float cabin engineers in the world, and he's the very best.

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Chapter 16

Prideaux Haven

One of my first solo destinations in the Bayliner is Prideaux Haven in Desolation Sound. It's mid-June, before the hoards of summer boaters arrive. As one of my first evenings on the hook, I'm ready to absorb everything. I hurriedly anchor, launch the dinghy, and swim in the already warm waters of early summer. And, of course, I take Mr. Bathtub for a nice long ride, my first solo adventure with the dinghy.

Before departing in the dinghy, I accumulate all of the items I think I'll need, including bailing bucket, hand pump, ropes, cushions, and gas can. Mr. Bathtub's engine starts nicely on the third pull (after I remember to open the fuel vent on the filler cap). I twist the throttle to full power (that's not saying much), and charge around the interconnected bays of this relatively uncrowded anchorage (perpetually crowded in July and August).

I discover I can set the steering friction knob for straight-ahead and easily maneuver laterally using shifts in my body weight alone to determine direction. The speed doesn't seem very fast until I round the last curve of a circuit that will return me to the Bayliner. Ahead of me, the water suddenly turns green, and I'm on top of a reef before I can throttle back. Mr. Bathtub is obviously going to make crunching contact, so I swing in my seat and try to reduce the throttle to idle while simultaneously raising the engine. I'm too late.

It's not advisable to make any fast moves in Mr. Bathtub. His 6-foot length and overall instability cause him to swamp quickly, since he rides particularly low in the stern with the added weight of the outboard motor. My sudden movement shifts my weight to the left and rearward, swamping the dinghy from the rear as the bow begins crunching onto the reef. Fortunately, the shallow water simply puts me in an awkward position – there isn't far to sink. I end up with the left half of the catamaran completely flooded, and the dinghy sitting firmly on the rocky bottom.

Fortunately, I used my dinghy pre-departure checklist, and thus have both a bailing bucket and hand pump. I bail out most of the water and then stumble (semi-float) back to the Bayliner. I'm both embarrassed (with only myself to notice the results) and more respectful of the severe limitations of Mr. Bathtub.

* * * * *

The following April, Margy and I are anchored in Prideaux Haven during the early evening. It's an extraordinarily warm, sunny weekday in spring, and it's a real treat to have the cove nearly to ourselves.

We sit on the aft deck of the Bayliner, watching the first stars come out, and in the west I see noctilucent clouds for the first time. I've taught students about these unusual clouds in my college aviation weather class, but this is my first observation of the glowing high-altitude formations (meteor dust). Noctilucents are so distinctly different from high cirrus clouds that they are immediately identifiable, maintaining their sunlit glow long after the first stars appear. They are catching the last sunlight at near-orbital altitudes, a most memorable sight.

This has been quite an evening. We entered the anchorage near low tide, and I maneuvered the Bayliner a little too far to the right side of the entrance. Crunch! – one of my least favourite sounds in a boat. We were moving slowly when we hit the small rocky ledge (no, not the same reef), and I came back to idle on the throttle almost immediately. Probably there's only some scraped paint on the right side, below the waterline, and no significant damage seems likely. The motor is untouched and the crunch isn't extreme, so it's soon forgotten.

The crunch is remembered a few hours later, after we're anchored, and Margy is cooking in the galley. I'm relaxing with a novel on the aft deck, when she asks: "What's that gurgling sound?"

I might not have noticed the sound without Margy's concern, since I'm quite sure I've discerned the same noise on previous voyages. It's only the sloshing of water in and out of a scupper drain on the right side of the boat. But that's the same side as the crunch, which now returns to the forefront of my mind.

"I think that's normal," I reply, with as much confidence as my voice can muster.

I peer over the side, and I observe the water sloshing in and out of the waterline scupper drain. But I really don't know the purpose of this outlet, and I'm not sure sloshing is supposed to be evident here.

Now the boat seems to be leaning to the right! Wait – I'm leaning over the right side of the boat, so that's normal. I say to myself: "Calm down," but my stirred imagination utters otherwise.

"Do you think we might be sinking?" Margy asks, raising her voice to be heard from inside the cabin, but with no tone of alarm.

"No, of course not," I answer with a tone of confidence. (I don't feel confident.)

"That was a pretty bad scraping on the reef," she reminds me (raised voice from the cabin).

I scan around me, and there are only two other boats nearby. There's been no sign of life on either vessel since we arrived, and there are no visible dinghies. So probably these boaters are out and about. This anchorage suddenly seems like a lonely spot.

I've shed my shoes on the aft deck and am walking in my socks. I now step into the cabin to calm Margy down (meaning: to calm myself down), and on my first step into the galley area from the aft deck, my socks are immediately soaked.

"The carpet's wet!" I say. I'm trying to keep my voice under control.

Margy reaches down, touches the carpet, and verifies it's soaked. There are only two access hatches to any structure lower than the carpet. One is the engine bilge (almost completely dry) and the other is a seldom-checked hatch below the step to the aft deck (it has a trace of water, but we're not sure if that's normal). We discuss the situation as logically as possible, and over the next few minutes we manage to calm ourselves.

There's no danger to us – it's only a boat. We have a dinghy, a nearby shore, and there are other boats as a safe-haven in the interconnected bays. We also have a satellite phone, which we decide to use now to consult John.

"Hello." Long drawn out Canadian. I'd know John's "Hello" anywhere.

"We think we might be sinking," I say calmly, expecting to get a rise out of John.

"I doubt it," he replies. "Where are you?"

"Prideaux Haven. But I'm serious. We wonder if we're taking on water."

I tell John the entire story. He has an answer involving the previous week's maintenance on the boat in his yard: "Ya know, when the boat was on blocks, the stern was a bit higher than the bow. Rain dripping in the rear door probably soaked the carpet all the way to the front."

An explanation for the carpet is enough to put the other factors into perspective. We aren't sinking after all.

But this is only the beginning of a very unusual evening. Besides the noctilucent clouds, a solo military jet roars over us just before sunset. In this exceedingly quiet spot, the jet engines announce the aircraft's arrival far in advance. The Tutor trainer proceeds to put on an airshow nearly directly overhead, with repeated loops and rolls, before eventually continuing its flight out-of-sight to the north.

There's no way this is a coincidence. Instead, I decide this is one of the Canadian Snowbirds, the military aerobatic demonstration team scheduled to perform over Comox that afternoon. They had even been scheduled to fly along the Powell River shoreline for the week's Oysterfest, in conjunction with the Comox visit, but the city council had nixed it – "Too noisy, unless they stay well offshore." Now there's a town for you – a free military airshow, but let's tell them they're noisy pests. The Snowbirds decided to skip Powell River.

My conclusion regarding this overhead coincidence seems logical. A Snowbird has decided to frolic a bit by practicing his aerobatics over Prideaux Haven. If I were that pilot, I would have done exactly the same thing.

Still, an unexpected private airshow, noctilucent clouds, and a perceived sinking in a period of two hours seems like an amazing coincidence.

As the stars come out this night in the remote sanctity of Prideaux Haven, I check for reflected images in the water. Even before twilight is over, full constellations appear in the mirror of the still cove. Under the darkening skies, I try to identify specific constellations in the water, a challenge even under these clear-sky and calm-water conditions. An amateur astronomer should know his constellations, but mirror images in the water are a special challenge.

There's an easy reflected figure to the southwest – Orion, the Hunter. Bright Rigel and Betelgeuse, along with the three belt stars of Orion, are clearly visible. In the water mirror, I see something I never thought would be possible. In the reflection above the belt stars (upside down) hangs the sword of Orion. Within the reflected sword is the diffuse glow of M42, the Orion Nebula. I'm looking at a deep-sky nebula, reflected in the water. Never would I have guessed this is possible. Maybe it isn't.

I turn to Margy, kicked back in her deck chair, and ask her to scan the area behind the stern of the boat. I invite her to search for the three belt stars of Orion reflected in the water.

"Yes, I see them clearly. Nice and bright."

"Okay, now, since that's the belt, look above it for the equivalent of a sword hanging from the belt."

Margy is a novice sky watcher, so she won't be fooled (like I) by seeing a nebula she expects at this location.

"Yes, I see that too. But it's a fuzzy glow, isn't it?"

Yes, it's fuzzy. It's M42, a birthplace for stars, and it's over a thousand light years from earth. And here the nebula floats, in the halcyon waters of Prideaux Haven.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 17

Royal Canadian Mounted Police

As I pull into the marina, I see John's parked truck, with Bro scampering around, now attacking my car with leaping enthusiasm. ("Somebody I know! Somebody I know!") John is at his boat, loading heavy boom chains and a 55-gallon barrel of wood shavings. This is part of his latest project – construction of a Malibu-quality beach out of solid rock at Number 1. He has already moved several huge boulders and imported some sand. Now he's finishing the path to the beach from his cabin and moving logs into scenic positions. The beach path connects farther down the shore to a park-like path that joins the main trail to Inland Lake. Everything in John's life is an enhancement on the quality of the almost-perfect natural surroundings.

This chance meeting at the marina reminds me of two things: This is a small town; and John is absolutely everywhere. He pops through the dock gate, returning to his truck for one last load (and Bro).

As John and I talk in the parking lot, Jess (from the cabin across from mine in the Hole) literally runs up to us. I don't see his truck – he simply appears out of nowhere. It's an increasingly small town.

"Going up the lake?" asks Jess.

"Yeah," says John. It's a drawn out answer, as if John knows Jess wants something, and he isn't in the mood to be delayed. "I'm headed to my first cabin. Wayne's going to the Hole," he adds. John is now obviously off the hook, in case Jess is hitchhiking.

"Can I give you a ride?" I ask, enthusiastic to help a neighbor.

In fact, I'm hoping there's something I can offer to Jess in return for the vitality he perpetually provides to our bay. I often sit on my deck, watching him push breakwater logs around his tiny cabin and his sister's adjacent float. He's been repositioning these logs back-and-forth with his small white boat for the past week. Then he'll spurt off to inspect a log drifting by the shore, quickly change his direction, and head deep into the Hole to investigate a splash or something else that has caught his eyes or ears. It's a source of nearly endless entertainment. I'd like to help Jess today simply because he's such a fun guy. There is no one friendlier or kinder on this lake, and there are a lot of friendly and kind folks here.

"No, I don't need a ride," he says. "But I've got some groceries for my sister."

He's carrying nothing, and I still don't see his truck. John looks up at the ready-to-pour black clouds. It's already sprinkling, and the sky overhead is ominous. He hates rain, especially the variety that's about to occur, best-described by John as "pissin' down rain."

"Sure, I'll be glad to take them," I say.

"Well, I guess I'll go then," says John, already retreating to his boat with Bro. It's been only a few minutes since I pulled into the parking lot, but the sky is looking darker by the minute.

"Let's load the groceries, Jess. I've got some things in my car to load too, so should we meet at my boat?" I ask.

"Well..." Jess hesitates. "It's a bit of a load, and its over at the fuel dock. My dad's boat is running rough, typical of that piece of crap."

Jess goes on to explain an elaborate series of events involving major surgery on his father's outboard motor, and a few other details that aren't getting my full attention. The sprinkles have changed into large drops, and I'm getting wet, as Jess gives me the complete engine diagnosis in the almost-pouring rain. I glance toward the docks, and John is already outside the marina breakwater, accelerating for Number 1. Bro's head is hanging out the back of the open canvas. I've never met a guy who can launch as quickly as John. He can slip away while you're untying your bow line.

"Should I meet you at the fuel dock with my boat?" I ask. I'd like to get going before I'm totally drenched.

"Sure, it's the tan hardtop with an ice chest next to it," says Jess.

He walks slowly toward the fuel dock, as if it isn't even raining. I hurriedly grab a 20-pound propane tank from the trunk of my car, along with my backpack. The rest of the stuff I had planned to take on this trip can wait for another time, when it isn't pissin' down rain.

I motor around to the fuel dock. It isn't far, but it's confined quarters, and requires my close attention. I unzip the overhead canvas, and stand in the rain as I drive. The wind is whipping up pretty good now, and it takes two tries at the fuel dock to maneuver behind the tan boat with the ice chest sitting next to it. The wind and chop on the water require lots of drift compensation, but Jess is there to grab the bow line I toss to him. He's able to haul me awkwardly to the wood rail, where he quickly ties a knot, and goes back to the tan boat.

But now I'm starting to swing ass-end around, completely backwards from where I intended. Jess suddenly appears in the back of the tan boat (which I'm about to hit), reaches his leg over and kicks my incoming stern hard with his boot. My boat swings gingerly through a complete arc and into perfect position against the dock. There, I'm finally docked. I hear a splattering of applause from the pub deck behind me, but I refuse to turn around. I know they're enjoying the show, huddled under their beer-logo deck umbrellas.

To make matters worse, it's pouring, and it's 5 o'clock on Friday, so the exodus up the lake has already begun. Boats are slipping into the water from the launch ramp, many of them making a loading stop at the fuel dock. The locals are stashing their supplies quickly in the rain, and efficiently slipping away. Their boats travel perfect paths as they steer outward from the dock, as if there's no wind, unlike my incoming track of swerves, loops, and a boot-propelled course reversal.

With rain now pouring down in windy sheets, I stand in the open bow as Jess hands me one bag after the other. The icebox is almost the last item to come aboard, and it's the heaviest, so I slide it below the center windshield, where it'll be secure. But it's also in my way, confining me to my seat.When I think we're finished, Jess slides a plastic jug of milk into the bow with a well-calculated push. It glides to a stop just as it kisses the ice chest.

"Thanks!" yells Jess, as he unhooks my ropes and throws them aboard. As I start the engine, he shoves my bow with his foot, and my boat dances smartly in a slow turn, aided by the wind. I'm pointed perfectly outward into the channel. Nice foot.

"If you get stranded, there's some choice cocaine in that icebox," Jess yells behind me. I'm pretty sure he's kidding.

The weather is looking serious. But I'm confident and feeling proud – I'm a local making a grocery run up the lake in the rain for a friend. I'm on a mission.

By the time I get to Number 1, the weather has calmed considerably. It's still raining hard, but the wind has let up quite a bit. The waves are only a minor challenge. Of course, I can't pass Number 1 when John's there without stopping, no matter what the conditions.

I pull into John's breakwater entrance, while he and Bro sit under the porch roof, looking like they're expecting me. I carefully maneuver toward the recently constructed dock extension. John stays under the protected porch, and waits until I'm completely docked with the engine stopped before he speaks.

"Nowhere to tie your ropes yet," he notes. For a change, it's a perfect docking, but no place to tie my boat. "Try hooking it to the other boat," he suggests.

There's an old derelict hull lashed to a stump on the other side of the dock. I position my lines across the dock and tie them to the other boat. In nautical terms, this is rudimentary rafting with a dock in between.

As John and I sit under Number 1's porch roof in the rain, I offer him half a sandwich I've been hauling everywhere today. It's almost 6 o'clock, and I still haven't eaten my lunch, so John and I polish it off. Well, John doesn't eat exactly half, since Bro is begging for human food. John tosses him a large chunk of mayonnaise-covered onion, and Bro chomps it down. This dog will eat absolutely anything.

I should get started up the lake. Jess' groceries will get warm, and his sister is probably expecting both him and the groceries soon. Meanwhile, John is focused on the wide channel in front of Number 1. There's a constant parade of boats headed up the lake on Friday evenings, and that procession has already begun.

"There goes Dan," says John.

"Dan who?" I ask.

"Dan – the guy who repairs boat canvas and zippers," replies John.

"Oh."

John knows almost every boat on this lake and every cabin owner. He refers to them by name and can tell you exactly what kind of boat and engine they're driving. His tremendous eyesight adds to this remarkable capability.

"Hey, Wayne," says John. It's his slow, inquisitive tone. He has seen something interesting.

"Check this out." He expects me to focus on the same patch of water he's watching. "Do you see those two boats stopped together?" He knows his vision is far superior to mine.

"Sort of," I say. It frustrates John when I'm unable to see the things he sees. "Yes, I do see two boats. What do you think is going on?"

Two small boats are now merged together in mid-channel. Maybe it's a mid-lake meeting, like those John and I conduct all the time.

"That's not the first time," notes John. "There was another boat just before that one. Look, there's a flashing light."

"A light? No, I don't see it." I strain to see what he's watching.

"It's a blue flashing light." John's tone is gradually rising in pitch with each sentence. I can see he's getting mad, and it's not at me.

The rain is letting up, and the sun angle is changing rapidly. Now I can see the light, a blue strobe flashing faintly in the distance, and it seems attached to the rear of one of the boats.

"Those bloody cops!" John isn't happy. "Look at them out there. What right do they have on our lake?"

Well, it isn't exactly our lake, but I understand what he's saying. It's strange to see this. No one ever sees police boats here. I've never seen a fisheries officer, the Coast Guard, or the RCMP on this lake.

"Could it be the Coast Guard?" I ask.

"No way," he says. "The Coast Guard has that orange rubber boat with twin outboards. This one is gray and a tiny motor, and their uniforms are blue."

Tremendous eyesight – I have no doubt he's correct.

"Watch!" directs John. "Here comes a crew boat down the lake. They won't stop them, because they know it has the required equipment."

A silver stern-drive crew boat powers past the stopped boats, not even slowing or altering course to reduce its wake. John is right – the work boat is completely ignored.

"See, they're stopping everybody except the crew boats. Who do those bloody cops think they are?" asks John.

I'm afraid to answer. John is getting heated up.

"It's harassment, just simple harassment," he says. "Look at them – they're wasting everybody's time, stopping every boat that's going up the lake."

He's right, at least regarding the stopping-every-boat part. The small inflatable outboard with the blue flashing light now lies in close formation with a boat it has stopped. Then, as another boat passes, the blue flashing light races forward to catch the next boat headed north. Each boat in sequence slows and stops, and then rides formation with the inflatable. Not a single northbound boat passes unchallenged.

"They should outrun them," states John, matter-of-factly. "I would."

"But it would be big trouble, if they catch you," I suggest.

"They'd never catch you in a boat like yours or mine. Their inflatable is nothing but a puny little dinghy."

"But we've got all of the required equipment and paperwork, so what's the worry about being stopped?" I offer.

I think about how many of these boats are undoubtedly registered in someone else's name in Vancouver or Comox. Changes in registration are not attended to with any level of seriousness on this lake. My boat is properly licenced, but I suspect few of these local boaters bother with such paperwork.

"To hell with the equipment," says John. "It's just not right."

And I'm sure that it isn't right in the eyes of most lake residents. This is their lake (they feel), and they don't take kindly to any act of intervention. Locals are generally law-abiding citizens in every respect, but they obey laws because they operate their boats (or trucks or ATVs) in what seems to them an appropriate and safe manner. They slow in no-wake zones because they respect their neighbors, not because they are afraid of being arrested.

We watch the dance of boats in the channel near Number 1 for a few more minutes, and finally the RCMP moves up the lake, disappearing beyond the cliffs to the north. I'm not particularly pleased with the prospect of being stopped in my boat as I head up the lake, although I have all of the required equipment and documents. What if I ram the RCMP while trying to raft up to them? What if they don't like Americans?

Finally, everything settles down (except John), and I push off from Number 1.

"Let me know," says John, as I swing outward from the dock.

I know what he means. He wants to know all the details: Where are the cops hiding, and do they stop me?

I throttle up in light rain after clearing Number 1's breakwater. It's showery now, with sunny breaks, and the lake is fairly smooth. I choose my normal route along the east shore, and trim bow-up for 30 mph. I'm cruising with an eye out for the cops, half-hoping to find them, since I'm curious what their boat looks like up close and whether they really are the RCMP. What questions are they asking, and are they boarding the challenged vessels?

My half-wishes are met as I round the rocky bend approaching Cassiar Island. It's an area of land cabins rather than float cabins, with a wide bay and lots of private docks. The grey inflatable outboard sits nestled in the bay, not challenging anybody. It's floating like a small fishing boat, lights off, two cops aboard. Maybe they'll let me pass.

I think about what I should do. I'm not supposed to be expecting the police, so maybe I should just plow on through. From here, they look like a small fishing boat, so maybe I should do what I'd normally do in a situation like this, commensurate with courtesy to a small boat.

So I don't slow a bit, but I gradually veer away from the shoreline and the little boat, which could otherwise be disturbed by my wake. As I begin my slight deviation away from shore, the blue strobe light flashes. Oops, that was a mistake. Maybe they think I've seen the cops and I'm running away? Bad decision.

But the inflatable doesn't chase me. Instead, it sits with strobe flashing, waiting to see what I'll do. I cut the throttle and steer toward the small boat. They now ease out of their parked position, heading directly toward me.

I take off my ear defenders (I'm sure the RCMP are watching my every action) and unzip the overhead canvas. Now I try to stand, but the ice chest blocks the center section of the boat. I stand with my head protruding from the center canvas, leaning in an uncomfortable stretched position to keep from falling back into my seat. I figure it's wise to shift into idle and let the other boat raft up to me. If they hit me, it's a lot less embarrassing.

Now I turn my engine off, and awkwardly step (stumble) over the ice chest into the open bow. "What's up?" I ask in a tone I hope is non-threatening. What a stupid way to start a conversation with the cops.

My boat is drifting past them as they prepare to raft up with me. I reach down and grab one of the inflatable's ropes that stretch the length of the gray boat. I immediately wonder if I'm going to get dinged for touching their boat. They say nothing.

The two RCMP officers are dressed in blue with yellow rain-gear unzipped over their uniforms. They're so young that I wonder if this is the high school auxiliary out for a day's practice. But one of the officers is professionally observing me very closely, and the other is intently staring into my boat, scanning every detail. I notice the snazzy RCMP lettering on their shoulders. Finally, after an uneasy silence, the officer that's examining me speaks.

"We're conducting safety checks," he says. "You headed up the lake to your cabin?" he asks.

I now realize what a strange image I must make. Here I stand in the bow of my boat with my life vest tightly zipped, bright-orange whistle protruding from my pocket, as if I've dressed for a safety inspection. They must wonder if I put on my vest as soon as I saw their boat. I hope they were watching me as I approached, so they don't think I'm trying to outwit them. In reality, this is the way I always dress in my boat. It doesn't fit into local custom, but I'm comfortable with it. I'm also wearing my tan "Canada" hat, which must look a bit foolish. They're just lucky I'm not dressed in my Canada logo shorts and Canada sweatshirt. ("How do I look?" I sometimes ask John, dressed in my touristy outfits. He replies: "You look stupid.")

"Yes, I'm headed to my cabin at Hole in the Wall," I answer.

"Do you have paddles?" asks the first officer, as the other policeman continues to scan inside my boat. There's only so much to see. I have a large bag of lime and a screen window that have made three round trips so far without being unloaded, my backpack, the ice chest and milk bottle, four bags of groceries for Jess' sister, and a small propane bottle. There are fishing poles poking out everywhere (always ready) and a bright yellow squirt gun on the back seat (a weapon!)

"Yes, I have two paddles," I say, nodding proudly toward the right side of my boat. There's no way they can see these paddles from their position, so I add an afterthought: "Would you like to come aboard?"

Their entire demeanor changes in an instant. Both young officers look at me as if I'm the first person to ever invite them aboard a boat. Maybe I am. ("Those bloody cops.")

"No, sir, that won't be necessary," replies the first officer, speaking very politely. The second officer releases his gaze from inside my boat and speaks for the first time.

"We're just checking to see that everyone is prepared for a safe weekend. Do you have a fire extinguisher?"

My memory from training for my Canadian boat operator's card says a fire extinguisher isn't required for a boat this size. They haven't asked for my operator's card yet or the boat's registration. But I do have a fire extinguisher.

"Yes, it's under that console." I point behind me on the left side. Once again, they can only trust me without coming aboard. The fire extinguisher is out-of-sight under the glove box panel.

"How about open containers of alcohol?"

I'm nearly completely at ease now, so I'm very tempted to say: "No, but I've got a stash of cocaine in that ice chest." Then I wonder if there is cocaine in the ice chest, and my heart misses a beat.

"Just that," I say, pointing to the bottle of milk. Both officers smile.

"Have a great weekend," says the first officer.

"You guys, too," I reply. They look like they're having fun, speeding around in this cute little inflatable with horsepower to spare. I bet it beats squad car duty.

* * * * *

That night, I make the required satellite phone call to John.

"Hello," he answers (Canadian twang).

"They caught me," I state quickly, seeing if I can catch him off-guard.

"I know," he replies.

"You know? How do you know?"

"I heard you," he answers. "I heard your boat power-back near the island."

I have no doubt he did hear my engine drop to idle. But the island is two miles north of Number 1, far around the corner from John's cabin. And the wind was blowing – sound dissipates quickly in a breeze. And there were many other boats in this part of the lake on a busy Friday evening. John clearly identified my boat engine, heard me reduce power two miles away, and knew the exact location where I met the cops. I'm surprised he didn't see me.

"It was just a safety check," I reply.

"Bastards!" he says matter-of-factly.

"They were actually very nice to me. They didn't ask to see any of my paperwork. Just asked a few questions."

"I just knew it," he says. "Those bloody cops."

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 18

On the Hook

My original goal of cruising to Victoria in my first boat (17-foot Hourston) and camping onboard at one of the city's docks was never met. In fact, in its original format, this adventure (with my tent set up in the aft area of the boat) was a bum idea for a number of reasons. First, taking the Hourston that far did not consider the changing weather of the Strait of Georgia. Second, tent camping on a small boat isn't a well-thought-out concept. Third, I don't care if I ever go to Victoria again, boat or no boat.

To cruise to Victoria and walk the city streets isn't even in the direction where I've gravitated as a boat lover and pseudo-Canadian. Victoria used to be one of my favourite spots. The city has not changed substantially, but I have.

Fortunately, The Curve of Time and related stories of cruising the BC coast intervened in my plans. Now there's a bigger boat in-tune with anchored destinations in remote areas. Although I dream of Knight Inlet and beyond, it would obviously be wise to start with destinations closer to Powell River. With my limited summer vacation (as a college instructor, I have June through early August) the options are constrained by both the available days and the amount of time I'm willing to dedicate to the chuck. After all, my float cabin is where I want to be most of the time. Being gone from my cabin for even a short time is difficult, particularly with limited summer days to distribute. As much as I enjoy kayak camping and overnight cruises on the chuck, it takes a lot of convincing to pull me off my float in the summer.

A few weeks after John purchases the 23-foot Bayliner for us, Margy and I make a three-day weekend trip to Powell River in February to see the boat for the first time. John has it ready to go except for some pending modifications. The swim-grid needs a complete overhaul. It's literally about to break off the boat, and John will later replace it with a home-made structure so beefy that it will be firmly attached and fully functional when divers someday find a 200-year-old sunken Bayliner.

I know there's a chance we won't even be able to go out on the chuck during our February weekend visit, but at least Margy and I will be able to see the boat and spend some nights at our float cabin, if the weather even allows that.

We luck out – the weather is excellent (for February). John takes us on a brief Bayliner trip to Van Anda's old public wharf, the perfect place for docking practice and a private spot to launch the unstable fiberglass dinghy. The dinghy is immediately designated "Mr. Bathtub" for its fine artistic lines, and we later stencil the name proudly on its hull. Unfortunately, Mr. Bathtub is a vessel to be trusted only under the best of conditions. Launching and recovering the bathtub at Van Anda results in scary creaking and cracking from the (still-to-be-replaced) swim-grid. In the protected harbour, Margy holds on for dear life as I pushed the dinghy's 3-horse outboard up to maximum cruising speed of approximately 5 knots.

We decide to carefully test the dinghy's outboard motor on the Bayliner's kicker mount pad. This setup is designed to get us home if the main engine quits. It requires tiptoeing on the swim-grid (more creaking and cracking), but once in place, the kicker can be operated with a long reach from the aft deck. It takes constrained arm movements on the motor's tiller to maneuver the small outboard, but I drive the Bayliner from this position for a few minutes. Our forward speed is excruciatingly slow, and maneuvering even slower, but it gets us out of the harbour, where the exercise is deemed a limited success. This arrangement won't bring us home after an engine failure, but it might keep us off the rocks until the Coast Guard arrives. John takes the opportunity to remind me that the only real solution is a twin diesel. I remind him that this is a transitional boat, a concept he reluctantly accepts.

We then spend nearly an hour practicing docking at Beach Gardens, where wide open dock fingers in February provide plenty of room for practice. It doesn't take long to realize a command bridge is a necessity for docking (John is right again), and I'm pleased how well the boat handles in mooring situations. At least at wide-open docks like these, the results are favourable. The engine can be brought to a very slow idle (unlike the dual-prop Campion), and the heavy (to me) boat moves with adequate momentum to overcome minor currents and winds. I'm immediately humbled when we return to our confined dock at Westview and attempt to dock.

* * * * *

In March, a solo visit to Powell River (spring recess) provides me with the first opportunity to spend some extended time with the Bayliner. As I plan my first overnight trip on the chuck, I make two good decisions: I decide to stay close to home, and I take my satellite telephone with me. It seems reasonable to take advantage of a predicted fair-weather period for an overnighter in the nearby Copeland Islands.

Weather can change quickly during March, but the Copelands are just minutes from the harbour at Lund. I kid John that, if worse comes to worse, I can take refuge in Lund and call Powell River Taxi, thus deploying one of his brothers to my rescue.

I previously camped on the Copeland Islands during a summer kayak trip, so I know the territory pretty well. I remember a particularly inviting cove where a boat was anchored near the kayak campground. That boat had the entire cove to itself in July, so I expect the tiny bay will certainly be vacant in March.

John helps me get organized, running through the battery switch options – always use an isolated battery at night so you have an untapped source of electrical power in the other battery for engine start the next morning. He reviews cold start procedures, and shows me how to light the diesel heater. We fire up the heater at the dock, and I'm shocked when it lights off with a loud bang, pouring black smoke out the side of the boat. I decide I'll use this source of heat only if the Canadian layered-clothing method completely fails. I don't want to deal with an onboard fire on my first trip.

I stop at Lund for fuel, enjoying a flawless docking that would have knocked John's socks off. I also know it's pure luck.

The Copelands are empty, and I can select any spot for anchoring I desire. Since I had previously witnessed a boat in that small cove near the kayak campground, it's the conservative choice. Obviously, it's a safe anchorage, there's plenty of room for swinging, and the depths on the charts indicate excellent conditions for dropping a hook approximately thirty feet into a mud bottom.

When I arrive at the cove, I carefully extract enough rode from the anchor locker to provide a safe scope (ratio of rode to depth). The rode deployed should equal at least three times the depth, according to my extensive reading on the subject. By now, I've read nearly every book ever published regarding anchoring. These publications put me in tune with everything I would ever want to know about anchors, except the things I needed to know for my first night on the hook.

The anchor's electric winch is one of the items awaiting modification (in other words, it doesn't work), but the small anchor on this vessel is easy to handle manually. Dropping the anchor is effortless, and pulling it up is only mild exercise (and brief). Unfortunately, when you drop anchor four times before you're satisfied with your position, the exercise gets more demanding each time. By the time I'm finally in the "best" position, my arms are toast. The priority regarding anchor winch repairs moves upward immediately.

One of the instructions missing in all of my boating books is how to use a stern anchor. In fact, stern hooks aren't mentioned at all, although stern lines to shore are briefly discussed and are commonly used in coastal BC. It's obvious to me that it will be better to have some solid restraint at the rear of the boat as well as the front. Why would you want to swing a complete circle in changing winds when a stern anchor will allow you to keep your position? It's an obvious omission in the boating books that my physics background can easily solve.

The previous day I rode my bicycle to the local marine store to purchase an anchor for the stern. I had read about the need for a spare anchor, preferably heavier than the bow anchor, for alternate use in hefty seas. I figured my stern anchor should be fairly heavy, to serve both purposes. As I paid for the anchor, the young clerk asked if I was riding a bicycle (plastic bike helmet in hand). I thought he was merely interested, but when I got outside with the anchor, I realized why he had asked. Another topic not covered in boating books is why you should never try to carry an anchor on a bicycle.

When I finally arrived at my boat with the anchor ("Look out, here comes an American on a bicycle, hauling an anchor!"), I attached a 100-foot rope for the new stern hook. Later, I found two more anchors hidden by the previous owner in the recesses of the boat. (On boats, you can never have too many anchors – similarly, on float cabins, you can never have too many batteries.)

In the Copeland Islands, with the bow anchor now deployed, I take a few minutes to consider whether this is the proper place for a stern anchor. The winds are currently light, with small swells. After leaving Lund, the marine weather forecast changed (it's always that way), indicating that moderate northwest winds were expected later in the evening. My selected cove is facing northwest (it's always that way too). I consider changing my selection of anchorages after hearing the forecast, but I have a solid mindset on this particular cove. After all, I've seen a boat anchored here previously, and it's a picturesque spot. But a stern anchor might be wise. What can it hurt?

Now how do you deploy a stern anchor? I could just drop it, but that might allow the rope to drift into the prop and wrap around it. Or I could toss it rearward as far as possible. John would know – it's another mission for the satellite phone.

"Hello." Canadian drawn out, more friendly than an American greeting.

"Hey, John! Guess who, guess where?"

"You're in the Copelands," he replies.

"Right, and it's getting windy."

"Whitecaps on the chuck," he says.

I can visualize him at his window, looking through binoculars at the waves near Texada Island as we speak.

"Well, I'm here, and I've found a nice cove, but I'm not sure how to use a stern anchor."

"A what? Why do you need that?" he asks.

"Well, I'm gonna swing pretty good in these winds, and I'm worried about hitting the shore."

"Put her in the right position, and let her swing," he says.

"But I'm still worried," I reply. "I'd try a stern line to shore, but I'm afraid of using Mr. Bathtub to take it to the beach – that cracked swim grid, you know."

"I know. Okay, if it makes you feel any better, throw an anchor out the stern," he says.

"But should I simply drop it straight down?" I ask.

"That won't hold shit," he replies. "Heave it as far as you can, and then try to set it by moving the boat forward a bit. Just watch out that you don't get hung up in the prop."

So that's what I decide to do, but I find that tossing an object this heavy is similar to dropping it straight down. The anchor arches outward about five feet and heads toward the bottom. I carefully watch the anchor's rope to assure it doesn't tangle with the prop.

The night isn't pleasant. The wind gains strength after the early March sunset, and I rock (unlike a baby) in the V-berth. I get out of bed repeatedly and inspect my position relative to the shore. The anchors are holding (both of them), but I still shine my flashlight repeatedly toward the edges of the cove to assure I'm not moving. The GPS anchor drag alarm goes off several times, indicating significant movement, but when I check my position visually against the shore, all is okay.

After being awakened by the drag alarm a few times, I finally conclude the GPS itself is in error, probably caused by the rocking boat's adverse affect on satellite reception. So I turn off the alarm, and try to get some sleep.

It's a restless night. The V-berth rocks, and the waves slap against the hull. I finally give up and try reading. But as I lay in bed with my book, the rocking becomes so persistent that I begin to feel queasy. During most of the long night, I simply lie in the berth thinking about what I'll do if the winds increase further. I can, if conditions worsen, go out on the cracked swim grid, launch Mr. Bathtub, and retreat to shore. That's somewhat reassuring.

As soon as dawn breaks, I'm ready to leave, although I'm concerned with the wave conditions beyond the cove. No whitecaps are visible from my position, but the marine report now implies 20-knot winds from the northwest in this area.

There isn't much to do in preparation for my departure. I've already reorganized the cabin during the night (something to do), stowing almost everything that needs to be secured.

I move the battery switch back to "Both," hoping I've selected the correct battery for overnight use. I pray the engine will crank properly. It might be nice to get that out of the way now, allowing adequate engine warm-up before raising anchor. My previous luck regarding starting this motor in cold conditions has not been good, with John taking over each time before I killed the battery. There's no John this morning, so I need to get it right the first time.

I pump the throttle several times (just as John has advised), and the engine cranks over solidly and starts almost immediately. I breathe a sigh of relief. Before leaving the command bridge to begin raising anchor, I decide to briefly try shifting into gear to see if the engine is warm enough to continue running under load. I wouldn't want a flameout during the critical process of breaking anchor.

I rehearse the next steps – how to proceed forward to the bow anchor. I know so little about this boat that I prepare to climb over the windshield on the command bridge, down to the anchor's attachment location on the bow, since it seems the most efficient way to get to the forward deck. (I continued this anchoring procedure for several overnight trips, until I finally realize how easy it is to maneuver around the side walkway, using the manufacturer-installed handholds.)

Now, as a quick test, I slip the engine into forward gear at idle. The engine immediately bogs down but continues running. My mind has an immediate answer – I've picked up weeds on the prop during my overnight stay. The solution is also obvious – a little increase in power should throw the weeds aside. It doesn't. Instead, the engine gives a last gasp and dies. I return to idle and restart the engine effortlessly. But when I shift into gear again, the engine immediately quits. That's when I remember the stern anchor.

When I arrive on the aft deck, the problem is obvious (even more obvious than the weeds theory). The yellow rope dangles below the stern, centered on the prop. It's almost time to crank up the satellite phone and call John, but first I'll think this one through.

Okay, the rope is wrapped around the prop, but can't it be unwrapped? I've seen John do that on the Hourston when Margy caught a big one (the prop) with her fishing line while we were repositioning the boat to a new spot. John tilted the outboard motor upward and unwound at least ten feet of sixty-pound test fishing line by rotating the prop by hand. ("Don't do that again," John told Margy.)

I untie the restraining ropes from Mr. Bathtub and lower him into the water so I can get a closer look at the prop. Then I step (carefully) onto the swim grid (crack, crack) and slip the dinghy's attachment hooks loose. Mr. Bathtub rides in formation with the Bayliner, as I secure the dinghy's bow line to the back rail. I slowly (more cracking noises) reposition myself, with my head down over the back of the swim grid. My eyes are almost at the waterline, and the view is clear. But the prop is barely visible, protruding just a bit from the transom. The yellow rope comes into the prop on one side and exits on the other.

I reposition myself slowly on the grid, lying flat so I can reach into the water as far as possible. I can almost touch the prop. I pull on the end of the rope connected to the boat (the other end disappears deep into the water), and there's no give. It's time to admit the obvious.

"Hello," sounding sleepy this time.

"Sorry to wake you up," I say. "I made it through the night," I note heroically.

"Where are you?"

"Same place – the Copelands. Do you remember the time Margy wrapped her fish line around the prop?"

"Hmm," he replies. John's brain has clicked into gear and visualizes my situation immediately.

I explain all of the details. John asks a lot of questions.

"I thought about going swimming to reach the prop," I say. "But the water is awfully cold."

"You haven't raised the motor yet?" he asks.

"Raised the motor? This motor goes up?"

I thought raising the leg was limited to outboards. It's a good thing John is used to dealing with American amateurs. He explains how to raise the leg – it's the switch marked "Tilt," and it's clearly tagged with an up-down label. Duh.

After formulating the plan with John, I execute it flawlessly. After tilting the motor upward, I can get to the prop easily. I untie the end of the line connected to the boat and pull on it. Nothing. I then pull on the end extending downward from the prop that leads to the anchor, but there's no movement. And I can't dislodge the anchor from the bottom; it's firmly set into the mud and won't budge.

I clamor to the bow of the boat (up and over the command bridge, and then down to the forward deck), and loosen the front anchor's rode. Then, climbing up and over the command bridge again, I hand-pull the boat backwards until directly over the stern anchor's position. Additional tugging does not loosen the anchor. Normally, a lodged anchor can be easily pulled from the mud by the engine-power of the boat, but there's no engine available at the moment. It's time to cut the rope. Goodbye anchor.

I wrap my hand around the cut end of the rope and pull with maximum arm strength, trying to rotate the propeller. The resistance is severe, but there's a slight movement. I manage to pull two-feet of rope off the prop before it freezes in position. It's time for the last alternative – cut the rope as short as possible at both ends, and see if the engine will start.

I tilt the engine back down (almost forgot that), and hit the starter switch. The engine starts perfectly! It sounds normal. I apprehensively slip the engine into gear. And it still runs! We're outta here!

I maneuver into Thulin Passage, the long way around but the sheltered route. As I pass Lund, the waves increase steadily, and a mile farther south the conditions exceed my personal limits. When the bow of this boat splashes into a wave so hard that spray hits the windshield, it's a pretty big wave. This boat is a lot larger than the Campion, and windshield spray doesn't occur until the waves hit three feet. I decide to turn back.

Although the conditions seem worse now that I'm headed into the wind, the dock at Lund is only a short haul. My arrival isn't smooth, but any landing you walk away from is a good one in these conditions.

I phone John, letting him know he might have to retrieve the boat from Lund, if conditions don't improve soon. But I have time to wait things out, so I return to the Bayliner, crawl up onto the command bridge, and settle down with a good book. It is a good book, until I start to get seasick. I haven't been seasick once in my two years on these Canadian waters, but on this day (on the hook in the Copelands and now tied up to the dock at Lund) I feel queasy. It's time to give up.

As I prepare to stagger to shore, a prawn fishing boat with classic metal-hull design is headed straight at the dock under full power. The waves are breaking and the dock is rolling, and a fellow is standing on the forward deck of the prawn boat. He isn't exactly standing – he's dancing. The conditions are pretty severe, and the waves are throwing the boat every which way. But the dancer is really putting on some moves.

A local boater, kneeled on the dock, unhooking his mooring lines, says it best: "Crazy prawn fisherman."

We both watch in awe as the bow dancer jiggles erratically around the boat's sloped deck. I don't mention to the fellow next to me that I'm seasick, just standing here on the dock.

A few hours later, John picks me up in his truck at Lund, deciding to leave the Bayliner until another day. After he retrieves the boat, he removes the prop and pries seven feet of rope from the innards. How the engine turned the prop and got me to Lund in that condition is a near-miracle. The rope still hangs on the wall of my float cabin as a reminder regarding sleepless nights on the hook, prawn fishermen, and stern anchors.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 19

Speed Bump

My first boating experience in Canada is behind a runabout on Skaha Lake near Penticton. It's a ride on water skis, traded for an airplane flight. At the time, I'm camping with a friend on the north end of the lake, a long bag-drag from the airport.

In a rented Beechcraft with my friend Joe in the left seat, we cross the mountain ridges, approaching Penticton. Joe is a new private pilot, trained by yours truly at our Air National Guard Base in California. This cross-country trip is quite an opportunity for Joe – a flight through Canada in an airplane with retractable landing gear (big time!)

Joe is one of my military unit's top C-130 crew chiefs, so he really knows airplanes. But he doesn't know Beechcraft, and he doesn't know about unpressurized flight. Over the snow-covered peaks, we climb to 13,500 feet to top the clouds and find a smooth ride. Since Joe is a novice pilot and I'm an experienced flight instructor, it's only natural that I encounter some inadequacies in his performance. I provide him headings to fly to get us across the glaciated peaks as quickly as possible, but he keeps screwing up.

"Turn right, heading zero eight zero," I announce in my professional flight instructor voice. This will tweak our heading for a more direct route across the ridge.

"Roger, zero eight zero," replies Joe, playing the traditional flight training game of pilot and on-board air traffic controller.

He smoothly turns right, but then continues through his assigned heading of 080 degrees, finally rolling out on a heading of 180. Flying south will not get us across this ridge of mountains. Surely he recognizes this fact.

"No, Joe. We need a heading of zero eight zero, not one eight zero," I chastise.

"Sorry, Wayne," says Joe.

He begins his turn back to the left. I wonder if he's experiencing hypoxia, lack of oxygen. Everyone's symptoms are a little different, and Joe's signs of hypoxia may be manifested by lack of mental sharpness. That's commonly observed in students at this high altitude, although we've only been at 13,500 feet for a few minutes. I plan to start downward as soon as we clear the last snow-capped mountain, and that's only a few miles ahead.

But then Joe does something even weirder – he continues his left turn past 080 (two complete misses in a row) and rolls out near 010. Now we're paralleling the ridge in the opposite direction, although we'll slowly clear it on this heading. I let him continue at the controls, since there are no serious safety implications yet, and the best way to learn in an airplane is to make a few gentle mistakes under controlled conditions.

"Joe, what heading did I assign?" I ask, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible.

"Zero eight zero," he replies, matter-of-factly. He seems to understand my instructions, but he's nowhere near 080. Now I begin to guess at what his brain is thinking. Maybe he's flying 008 (reasonably close to the ten degree heading that I observe), thinking that's the assigned course. From my position in the right seat, I can't see the directional gyro as precisely as he sees it from the pilot's seat. The parallax on the directional indicator from where I sit includes a few degrees of error. Could his brain be thinking 008 instead of 080? There's a big difference between north and east, but the numbers could be jumbled in his hypoxic mind.

"Joe, take a minute and look closely at your directional gyro, and then read the heading to me."

I speak in what is approaching a condescending tone. This is a great lesson in hypoxia for Joe, and I (the veteran instructor) have experienced rudimentary hypoxia previously, so now I tolerate higher altitudes better than most students (or so my theory goes).

"Zero eight zero," says Joe. Not even close.

"Not quite," I reply.

But another problem is now simultaneously receiving my attention. The weather is clear, but our fuel supply isn't endless, and the automatic direction finder (ADF) is malfunctioning. It's our primary source of navigation data in this area.

The ADF isn't receiving the signal for the station ahead, so I do what all good flight instructors do under similar conditions – I tap solidly on the ADF indicator with a well-experienced fist. That sometimes solves the worst of avionics problems.

Joe continues to ponder my comments. I can tell he's thinking (almost out loud), and he simultaneously squints at the directional gyro in front of him. Meanwhile, I double-check the frequency set in the ADF and fiddle with the tuning switches. It's possible that I too am experiencing a bit of hypoxia.

The last white peak slips past us on the wrong side due to our heading. Ahead of us, the lowlands are approaching more slowly than I desire. Nevertheless, we're now clear of the mountains, so I decide to order our descent.

"Let's start down now," I say.

If Joe doesn't get back on the required course soon, I'll solve his heading problem by taking the aircraft from him as we descend lower.

"Okay, Joe, we'll talk about the directional gyro problem when we get on the ground. For now, just remain on your present heading, and let's continue on down to 9500."

That will be an altitude commensurate with our direction of flight under visual flight rules, and we can continue on our current heading for a few minutes longer without any terrain conflicts. There's really no danger of hitting anything or getting lost, but an operable ADF would make things a lot simpler.

As we descend through 11,000 feet, Joe lets out a muted "Oh!"

It's not an emergency-like "Oh!" It's clearly a now-I-get it "Oh!"

He immediately starts banking to the right, rolling out on a solid 080 heading.

"Is this the heading you want me to fly?" he asks, with a lilt in his voice.

"Yes, that's the one," I laugh. This will make an interesting fireside conversation tonight – a lesson on the hidden dangers of hypoxia. Of course, it's fortunate that it also provides (without further explanation needed) a demonstration of macho flight instruction. I can tolerate the lack of oxygen a lot better than novice pilots, and that's now obvious to us both. In reality, it probably has more to do with differences in health than experience. Lung capacity plays a big part, and good health promotes oxygen intake.

And more good news... as we descend through 10,000 feet, I glance at the ADF and find the solution to our avionics problem. I've forgotten to turn the ADF receiver switch to the "On" position. That explains a lot and is a good lesson for a macho flight instructor.

* * * * *

At the campground that night, we laugh about our mutual hypoxia (better than reading about it in an accident report), and meet some boaters who want an airplane ride. That common request is something I normally try to avoid, since it takes a lot of effort to prepare an airplane for a local flight. You might as well launch on a cross-country trip instead. However, this time I find an enticing reason to listen to the request. These guys have a speedboat and a set of water skis. I haven't been on skis for 15 years, and it sounds awfully alluring. So we make the trade, and the next day I get to ski, getting up easily on a single ski, which pleases me a lot.

Water skiing is a lot like riding a bike or flying an airplane – you never forget how to do it. The next day my arms and chest are sore from the effort, but I'm thrilled to ski after all of these years. It's something I'll not do again for another twenty years, and it will be on Powell Lake.

* * * * *

My second boat ride in Canada is in a kayak. (Ferries don't count – they're part of the highway system in British Columbia.) Margy and I rent two kayaks at Okeover Inlet during our first summer on the Sunshine Coast, before our discovery of float cabins on Powell Lake.

I quickly learn that my back isn't designed for the seat of a kayak, a problem later solved by an inflatable back support. After an hour of paddling, we barely reach Lancelot Inlet (about 2 miles). I can progress no further. Totally exhausted, with my back in excruciating pain and my arms and hands numb, I'm shocked at my inadequacy for this sport. I conclude it must be the way I'm sitting or paddling, but I know what I have to do – I throw my bow line (painter) to Margy and she unceremoniously tows me back to the kayak bay.

Unfortunately, my timing isn't the best. The tide has reversed, but somehow Margy gets me back to civilization. This is the day I receive my first indoctrination to the power of tides. Even what you can't see can hurt you.

On a second kayak trip, also in Okeover, we rent a two-person kayak as my proposed solution for an aching back. I take command of the rudder from the rear seat and act like I'm paddling, which I occasionally do. Margy and I venture into Desolation Sound Marine Park (just barely), spend a few treasured minutes on a small islet, and consider ourselves completely off the grid of civilization. We're just beginning to understand what living off the grid really means. We observe cabins along the shore of Okeover, wondering what it would be like to live so remotely, with your home accessible only by boat.

We time our kayak trip properly this time, riding the ebbing tide outward and catching the flood tide home after our stay on the islet. The roiling of the water during this period of changing tides gets my attention, but I'm not sure what it really means. Time will teach.

We're now thoroughly hooked on kayaking, and I know I can conquer my back and arm problems (I do), but then we discover float cabins on Powell Lake, and our kayaking goes into temporary hibernation. As I settle into float cabin life, I consider whether a kayak would get enough use in this environment. Couldn't I paddle it around the Hole for exercise and fishing, and then put it on the car at the Shinglemill (a long tow from the Hole) for ocean use?

The idea doesn't take long to gel, and soon John is contracted for a new dock extension at the cabin, low enough in the water to allow easy in-and-out kayak access (although nothing is easy when it comes to entering and leaving the cockpit of a kayak).

Our selected kayak is a two-person model, with a third child-seat in the center that holds Bro on a few trips. Racks on the top of our compact car (another John-design) allow travel along the Sunshine Coast and to the Gulf Islands via ferry.

The car is tiny and the kayak huge. When the yellow banana appears at an intersection, people get out of our way, and it's very easy to find the otherwise nondescript car in the grocery store parking lot.

* * * * *

Our kayak's first sea voyage begins with a launch from Lund for the Copeland Islands. Crossing the Thulin Passage to the Copelands should be a simple process, but the northbound invasion of American cruisers in July provides a continuous flow of trawlers, cruisers, and an assortment of crew boats. Many of these boats are Canadian, but the "invasion" is designated (by me) as primarily American.

Large wakes are especially constricted in this narrow channel, and getting across the passage in the kayak is a bit nerve-wracking. I wonder how many of these American monstrosities are on autopilot, their drivers not paying attention to kayak obstacles in the water. We make it across without major incident, but some of the wakes are annoying.

"Damn Americans!" I yell, as often as the opportunity arises. It really doesn't matter whose flag is being flown – it gives me satisfaction to yell the phrase at every pompous-looking boat precisely at the instant the wake hits us. John adds to my attitude by reminding me of the name American boaters (at least as viewed by Canadians) employ for kayaks – "speed bumps."

John constructs a pole-mounted red warning flag for the kayak's stern. We decide it will look a lot classier as a red-and-white Canadian flag. This allows me to yell "Damn Americans!" with more vigor. He constructs the flagpole's mount with typical built-to-last perfection. We also select some bright-coloured kayak life vests to replace our sporty olive-drab models. See-and-be-seen is an important motto for kayakers and anyone trying to stay out of the way of Americans.

* * * * *

John's assistance allows us to avoid round-trip kayak excursions. Getting there is more than half the fun – the return leg of the journey is usually paddling agony rather than ecstasy. With John's help, we can launch at one site and recover at another location.

Margy and I slip into the water at the Cedar-by-the-Sea boat ramp south of Nanaimo for a trip to De Courcy Island. We'll paddle back through Dodds Narrows the next day for pickup by John and Bro at Nanaimo. As we launch, John mentions there are windmills on De Courcy Island. He's speaking from visual acuity rather than previous knowledge. I can barely see the island as a low-lying ridge in the ocean to the east, almost five miles offshore, but John observes individual windmills from this distance.

We navigate past Round Island and then across a wide stretch of open water to Mudge Island, consuming nearly an hour of paddling in relatively calm seas. From there, we head east past Link Island, inspecting remarkable eroded rock formations along the shoreline. On De Courcy, as advertised, there are windmills – still tiny specks to us, but spotted by John miles away.

The next day, after a night camped on De Courcy, we run the rapids at Dodds Narrows ("Yahoo!"), fight headwinds past sawmills on the Vancouver Island coast, and finally paddle into Nanaimo Harbour. We're seeking the spot where we've arranged to meet John.

Paddling close to the shore, we pass several prospective locations not shown in our kayak guidebook, wondering if the next indentation in the harbour is the right spot. Finally I see John and Bro waiting on the shore a half-mile ahead. There's no doubt John has been patiently watching us for the last five miles.

* * * * *

Mr. Kayak, with his name proudly on the side of the stern, finds lots of use around the Hole. One summer, the local quilting club is spending a weekend at Number 2, across the bay from my cabin. A friend of John's drops off four women at the cabin on Friday evening. The quilting club has planned a private weekend together, and they stay up until long after I go to bed at 11 o'clock, their voices and continuous soft laughter carrying across the quiet bay.

The next day, I go quad riding, and arrive back at Number 3 at about 5 o'clock. I have a plan in mind, but I'll need to carry it out before settling in on my float. I'm typically exhausted from a day's ride. Once I moor the boat, that will be it for the day.

As I enter my breakwater, I swing around the cabin and double-park the Campion against the kayak, and untie it from the dock. Then I tow Mr. Kayak across the bay to Number 2.

"Are you the ladies who are renting the kayak?" I announce as I enter Number 2's breakwater entry. All four women are on-deck, wondering who I am.

"No," says one of the quilting club members (a Canadian drawn out and inquisitive "No.")

"I'm John's agent," I state proudly as I approach the dock closer. "He says you receive a free kayak rental with your weekend stay."

I continue with the charade for a few more minutes, and it seems evident that most of the ladies (except one) have begun to understand my distorted sense of humor. We discuss their weekend adventure:

"How is everything with the cabin?" I reluctantly ask. One of the women still thinks I'm John's agent, and I don't look forward to informing John of any cabin problems that are reported to me.

"Oh, fine," answers one of the ladies. "Except please tell John that he forgot to leave tea towels. And we think the outhouse is almost full."

A full outhouse is something I definitely won't report to John. Obviously, these women are not outhouse experts.

"Tea towels?" I ask. "What in the world is a tea towel?" (The previous day, the grocery checkout clerk asked me if I had a buggy, and I thought she was talking about my Ford Tempo.)

"Tea towels – you know, those little towels you use to dry dishes," she replies.

It's going to be very difficult for me to tell John about this complaint. Maybe it's best forgotten.

I decide to give the quilting club a thorough in-dock checkout regarding how to use Mr. Kayak. I emphasize the stability characteristics over the safety features. There's little they can do to jeopardize their safety within the Hole while their friends and I are watching, but I'm not sure they're convinced this vessel is safe.

I can see they are thrilled with the "gift," but none of them accepts my offer to climb aboard the kayak. "We'll do it later," one of the women reluctantly states. I'm not sure I believe her.

For the next four hours, as darkness approaches, I watch from my float as individually and in pairs the women approach the kayak, look inside the cockpits, scan the safety gear tied to Mr. Kayak's top deck, and then walk away. In the late summer twilight, I notice a flashlight beam bouncing around the kayak, and then the light bounces back to the cabin. No one is going to venture out tonight.

That night, I go to bed to the droning of voices and laughter across the bay. When I awake the next morning, the lawn chairs are already occupied on the deck at Number 2. Once again, the women go out to the kayak, look over everything closely, and then return to the cabin porch.

Finally, at about noon, the first two voyagers bravely launch from Number 2. They slip into the back of the Hole and glide effortlessly past me, waving their paddles in obvious pleasure.

Ahoy!" yells one of the women to me. They think they are rowdy sea pirates.

The kayak cruises back and forth within Hole in the Wall constantly for the rest of the day, resting only to change passengers at Number 2. Mr. Kayak returns to me at the end of the day, exhausted but smiling from bow to stern.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 20

Prawn Fisherman

The chuck rules Powell River. With the town built on the slope of the coast, looking down on the ocean, most places are within sight of the water. Real estate ads for homes along the coast range from waterfront property to semi-waterfront (across the street) to ocean view to peek-a-boo view (ocean through the trees). Moving inland, it's mostly mountain view and territorial view, near the bottom of the pecking order.

After arriving at the Shinglemill in my boat, I drive past the paper mill to see the full breadth of the chuck. I immediately check for white caps. Even if I'm not going out on the chuck that day, I still inspect the water closely. The chuck rules Powell River.

A good way to judge conditions on the chuck is to view the northern tip of Texada Island. John can tell immediately whether the water is rough by the presence of whitecaps there, but I require binoculars. Sailboats are also a good indicator. When they're proceeding under power with their sails stowed, it's probably a fine day for powerboats.

One of the first persons to teach me about the chuck is John's mother, Helen. I remember watching her standing in the pissin' down rain in the driveway of my condo, yelling to John and me as he parks his truck. One of John's brothers waits for Helen in his taxicab at the curb. She wants me to know that some boxes I shipped to her address have arrived, and she has come out in the rain to tell me. Like John, Helen can find me anywhere.

She reminds me of my mother – always upbeat and excited about life. She's the first to warn me about the line in the water on the chuck. When you see a dark line on the water, it marks a change in wind. She speaks from experience.

* * * * *

Traveling south from Powell River in the Bayliner, Margy and I are looking for an anchorage away from the crowds. That will not be easy in mid-July, but we conclude that going south is wiser than north. The migration of summer cruisers (Americans!) has already passed Powell River, northbound.

When we arrive at the Harmony Islands in Hotham Sound, we're disappointed. They are tinier than I envisioned, and three boats already occupy the best anchorages. There's room for more, but we're looking for something secluded. So we exit the boundary of our trusted boating destination guidebooks, and proceed farther up Hotham Sound. At the northern tip, we find what we're looking for – solitude and only one anchored boat. In fact, I'm glad to find a vessel anchored here, since I'm concerned it may not be an adequate place for an overnight stay.

It's tough to find a shallow-enough spot here that will allow our boat to swing. The bottom is charted as rock rather than mud, not a good sign.

Mud is good, rock isn't so good, and sand is a disaster. I learned the hard way on a previous trip, anchored off North Thormanby Island on a beautiful sunny weekend. The shallow sandy beach provides lots of room for boats and shallow depths to drop an anchor. Day hooks are everywhere, many of the boats seeming too small for the ocean. Few sandy beaches are found along the BC coast, and this one is extremely popular. The winds are light, and the sky cloudless. Then, toward sunset, everyone disappears.

It's a Sunday, and I conclude that all of the day-only visitors need to go to work the next morning. Few boats remain as sunset arrives. I soon learn the real reason.

During the night, the wind comes up, and I hear the familiar sound of water splashing against the hull. I step onto the aft deck several times that night, shining my flashlight to shore, checking the security of the anchor. It's holding fine, but I know a sandy bottom isn't a recommended place to be. The slap of water against the hull isn't severe, and I get back to sleep after each check of the shoreline.

Near dawn, the tide reaches its lowest, and this time I awake to a new noise. It sounds like sand grinding gently on the hull.

I jump out of bed, hitting my head on the top of the V-berth as I exit. When I reach the aft deck, it's immediately evident we've dragged anchor several hundred feet down the beach, and the shallow water allows me to easily see the sandy bottom. We're going aground quickly. I can't see the prop because Mr. Bathtub is latched to the swim-grid, but we're pivoting on the stern. There's no doubt in my mind that the engine skeg is firmly in the sand.

I hop aboard Mr. Bathtub, which I left floating and tied to the stern after using it on Sunday. The outboard motor is already mounted on the dinghy. I yell to Margy (a very sound sleeper) – I need her help immediately. A few early-rising campers are huddled around their campfires, now watching me. My shouts to Margy bring more attention to the situation than I desire.

As I quickly evaluate the circumstances, I determine the stern needs deeper water immediately. Margy is on the aft deck now, so I toss her a line from Mr. Bathtub and tell her to tie it to an aft cleat so I can try to pull the stern away from the beach using the dinghy's engine.

Mr. Bathtub is roaring at full power (all 3 horses), and the Bayliner isn't budging. The Bayliner's stern-drive leg is solidly in the sand.

"Tilt the leg up!" I yell to Margy. She hustles back into the cabin, and I hear the tilt motor driving the leg upward. That's a good sign.

I pull with Mr. Bathtub again, but the dinghy skids in directions I don't intend. The stern-drive skeg is still immovable in the sand, and the dinghy deviates off to the side when I try to move directly away from the beach. But eventually, by repositioning Mr. Bathtub at an angled orientation from shore, the Bayliner starts to move. (I later decide it would have been better to push with the dinghy's flat bow rather than pull with a rope.)

Mr. Bathtub struggles under full power and makes only miniscule progress, but progress it is. Finally, the stern-drive breaks fully loose from the bottom, and we're free. As I continue to tow the Bayliner farther from shore, Margy tilts the leg back down and starts the engine. We raise the anchor, and Mr. Bathtub and the Bayliner depart unceremoniously in formation, with the campers cheering in mockery.

Now, a year later at the north tip of Hotham Sound, with rocky bottom rather than sand, we attempt anchoring several times. Thank goodness the anchor winch is now operational, because each time I'm not satisfied with our distance from shore. When low tide arrives, we'll be dangerously close to the rocky beach.

On the third attempt, I position the boat near the edge of a rocky underwater shelf, clearly evident on the GPS. We're finally firmly anchored adjacent to the steep drop-off. There's adequate clearance from shore, but I've deployed limited anchor rode. I'm battling a scope ratio (rode-to-depth) that's barely acceptable, but necessary to keep us from swinging too near shore. The winds are light and forecast to remain that way, making the scope less of concern. Plus, there's another boat anchored nearby in almost exactly the same manner – a good sign.

The beach to the north is moderately sloped near the gravelly delta of the river inlet. The east and west shores are rocky cliffs, with open water to the south. We settle in, raising our two large umbrellas. One of my favourite sailing books notes that the three most worthless items on a boat are a stepladder, a naval officer, and an umbrella. I've found that an umbrella is priceless under the right conditions (sunny and little wind).

As I begin to kick back and enjoy, the other boat raises anchor and departs. Maybe he was only on a day hook, and this is no place to spend the night. But I'm sure this anchorage is going to work. And it does – on the first night.

This location is deep enough to drop my new prawn trap nearby. In fact, several other traps (designated by floating Scotchmen) are already present in this bay.

I've read everything I can find regarding prawn traps, but none of it prepares me for prawn fishing. There's no discussion of how to tie the rope, and that's where I need assistance. Only a few metres from the Bayliner (in deeper water beyond the underwater shelf), depths are adequate for my first drop, but how should I secure the rope?

Cat food (city-folk simple) and chicken bones serve as bait, although I can't determine how to adequately tie the bait bucket in the trap. And what is the purpose of the hook clip and those heavy metal clamps? Margy bought a complete prawn trap setup for me as a Christmas present, but neither of us knows how to use it. Certainly I'm not supposed to cut the 400-foot rope just because I'm dropping the trap into an estimated 300 feet of water. It's not the perfect depth, but the trap location is easily accessible by Mr. Bathtub, and good enough for my first test drop.

I lower the trap from the dinghy and tie the rope to the large orange floating ball, properly marked with my name and John's phone number, since I don't have a Canadian phone number. I add twenty feet of line for the rising tide, and tie the remaining eighty feet in a rough bundle and toss it next to the trap. The yellow pile of rope floats obnoxiously next to the orange ball.

I've passed many orange Scotchmen on the chuck and never noticed a pile of floating rope next to the ball. My extra line for the tide change is also clearly visible just below the waterline, serving as an added hazard for any passing vessel. Of course, there'll be no fast moving boats in this bay, but any prawn fisherman who venture here to check their traps will quickly determine that city-folk are in action. (I later learn that the unused metal clamps are rope weights that would have solved the whole problem.)

I plan to give my trap a good soak. Overnight, according to my books, the prawns should venture toward shallower water, and they have to travel right past my trap. For now, I can sit under my umbrella (not worthless!) and watch my orange ball and its entourage of yellow rope.

The next day, we cancel our plans to relocate for the second night. This is an ideal spot. Occasionally, that morning, a fishing boat arrives to check its traps and probably chuckles about our floating pile of yellow rope. Other than these brief intrusions, we have the entire bay to ourselves During the afternoon, after my trap has been down 18 hours, I excitedly pull it back to the surface. The total catch is two prawns. I obviously have a lot to learn about prawn fishing..

Mr. Bathtub takes us to shore, and we hike the dry riverbed northward. It seems impossible that this river is now dry. Its banks and bottom indicate a raging river, probably only two months previously.

On that second evening, a black bear comes to the water's edge and roams for an hour as we watch him breaking oyster shells on the rocks and scavenging for food under the boulders. Even without binoculars, his actions are clearly visible. The light north wind keeps us downwind of the bear, so he doesn't detect our human scent. But maybe that doesn't matter anyway, since our movements on the boat don't seem to distract him. When I cough, he gives me a stare, and then resumes his beachcombing.

The evening is packed with too many incidents to be real. I'm awakened shortly after midnight by the wind. From the aft deck, I estimate the velocity as a steady 25 knots from the north. It's a warm downslope adiabatic breeze, and the boat is being safely pushed to the downwind extent of the anchor rode, far from shore. I check the mountain ridges against the stars on both sides of the bay to assure myself that the anchor isn't dragging. For now, it's holding firm. All looks safe. Then the meteor shower begins.

At first I think it's a precursor to the Perseids, a shower scheduled for early August. (The next night's meteor activity is extremely low, so it probably isn't the Perseids.) It could also be a minor shower such as the Delta Aquarids. (I investigate the schedule for that shower the next day – the dates don't jive.) In fact, what I'm watching is a rogue meteor shower, and it's quite a bombardment. Some of the meteors come straight down, thus appearing as bright flashes with no trails.

The wind continues to blow, strong and steady from the north. The anchor continues to hold. Then the northern lights begin.

At first, I think I'm witnessing the night's most northern passage of the sun below the horizon. The sun doesn't get very far below the horizon in July, and the rays I see are directly north, near the current location of the below-horizon sun. Streams of light project upward from the horizon, and then become suddenly brighter in a full curtain aurora. It's time to awaken Margy.

In all of our trips to Canada and Alaska, Margy has never seen an aurora. As a southern California native, she has progressed through her entire life without seeing the northern lights. Sunspot numbers are near a minimum now, but solar activity can temporarily zoom even in the trough of a solar cycle. It chooses to do so tonight. Then the wind shifts.

The changing wind is, to me, the most mysterious of all of the incidents this night. The strong north downslope wind shifts immediately to the west. The boat swings on its anchor. After about five minutes, the wind shifts again, this time distinctly from the south, still strong and steady. The wind is cold now, no longer downslope and adiabatically heated. Five minutes later, almost like clockwork, the wind shifts still again, now nearly directly from the east. It blows strong and steady for a few minutes and then suddenly dies. Absolute calm. I've thought about this wind a lot since that night, and I still don't understand its abrupt shifts in direction.

When I awake in the morning and step onto the aft deck, I'm caught by surprise. In calm conditions, the boat is nestled against the west shore of the bay, only twenty feet from the rocky cliffs. This is a wake-up shock and a very lucky situation. Apparently, our anchor nearly departed the rock shelf during the strong winds. Probably later in the night, when a lighter wind pushed on our boat, the anchor fell from the shelf. We drifted until the anchor caught on the rocky bottom near the west shore, stopping just short of the cliffs. Another lesson learned the hard way.

We start home, with a fuel stop at Egmont first. I've timed this stop for slack tide, with an opportunity for passage through Skookumchuck Narrows. This is no place to be anytime other than slack tide. We pass through Skookumchuck in nearly calm water, and witness some minor roiling near the narrowest part of the passage. We pause briefly in Sechelt Inlet, and then return to Egmont.

I can't wait to tell John. Finally, there's something I've accomplished in this water wonderland that he has not experienced. When I tell him I ran Skookumchuck at slack tide, he isn't impressed: "It was more like walking," he says.

* * * * *

My first attempt at prawn fishing verifies I've some learning to do. Advice from locals and a visit to the marine shop proves there's hope. I just need the right instructions. The line will be usable with additional weights, and I receive some lessons on techniques to increase my chances for success. Catching two prawns isn't a complete flop. Now I'm armed with the tools I need, and I'm anxious for another opportunity.

* * * * *

On the way into our selected anchorage in Thunder Bay (Jervis Inlet), I notice a string of commercial prawn balls. Why reinvent the wheel? – this is obviously a prospective location. After verifying a suitable anchoring spot is available in the bay, I motor back out to the area of the orange balls. I'll drop my trap from the comfort of the Bayliner and retrieve it in the morning.

My GPS shows a contour labeled "385 feet", almost the perfect depth for prawns, although my rope is only 400 feet long. I plan to find a spot about 350 feet deep, and that will be easy with the GPS.

I follow the orange balls, deciding to set my trap beyond the commercial Scotchmen markers. I don't want another prawn fisherman to scoop my trap up with the rest of his, and I also don't want him to think I'm poaching in his territory.

As I follow the orange balls southward, it's evident that the orange markers are following the winding 385-foot contour. Finally, the line of balls ends. I drive a little farther to provide a gap between my trap and the rest of the Scotchmen. But the depth here is too close to the 400-foot limit of my rope. The GPS indicates 385 feet and the depth sounder shows slightly over 400. I decide to adjust my drop closer to shore in about 350 feet of water. Then I go to work.

And it is work. After my first drop in Hotham Sound, the rope was carefully (I thought) rewound for storage. But without a spool, the rope is knotted. I labour for over a half-hour, slowly working the line loose from the bird's nest of unending loops. Finally, I'm ready to lower the trap, its new weights, and the re-engineered bait trap.

The waves are moderate when I begin my drop. The new weights provide a different feel, and the rocking boat makes it difficult to be sure the trap is fully down. But both the GPS and depth sounder agree that I'm at the right depth for the rope, allowing a margin of slack. I adjust and readjust the rope and finally depart for Thunder Bay.

The next morning, my orange ball is gone. I'm certain I've returned to the proper location, particularly since my GPS track from the day before is still displayed on the receiver's mapping screen. And the original set of commercial prawn balls is still in-place. The same gap between the last ball in this group and my orange Scotchman (that is, my missing orange Scotchman) is plainly visible. All is exactly as it should be, except there's no prawn ball.

I retrace the path from the last commercial ball several times and conduct a sweep search of the immediate area. This is my second attempt at prawn fishing, and it's definitely an even worse result than my first effort.

As I speed home in the Bayliner, I think about the fate of my trap. Most likely, it broke loose during the night because of moderate winds and waves, or I might have dropped it in water beyond the reach of the rope. In either case, the prawn ball has plenty of buoyancy to keep the trap afloat. It has floated to, or is currently floating to, a location where the trap finally will reach rope depth. And that's where it will stop. It will remain floating there for a long time, possibly for weeks or even months.

And maybe someday it'll be noticed as out of place. Of course, it'll be in water of proper depth for prawns, so many passing boats will ignore the orange ball. Possibly a local fisherman will someday question why the trap sits there day after day. Maybe he'll jot down the phone number on the ball and call John. Like a bottle placed in the ocean in hopes of reaching another continent, I may someday be reunited with my prawn trap. It will be a joyous day.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 21

Talking to Myself

Who hasn't talked to their dog or cat? Who hasn't thanked their car for avoiding a near-accident? I have. But do you talk regularly to inanimate objects like picnic tables and boats? Do you call them by their proper names – Mr. Picnic Table and Mr. Boat? I do.

Before you conclude I have a screw loose, consider whether you have ever lived off the grid for an extended period in an environment that's both small (you can only walk so far on a float cabin deck) and seemingly sacred. I wake up in the morning with no other humans within miles, having talked to no one for days, and exclaim: "Hey, hey! Good morning Mr. Cabin."

Mr. Bucket is used to store onions and carrots pulled from the garden, Mr. Kayak stands ready for paddling on a no-notice basis, and Mr. Telescope sits on his tripod in the kitchen, awaiting the fall of darkness.

Talking to yourself is often considered a sign of old age. I've talked to myself seemingly forever, but I consciously remember it becoming an innate part of my existence when I began to fly. Talking out loud when flying solo is an excellent idea, since it reinforces checklist items. If you simply read a checklist silently, the probability of missing an item is high. Read it out loud, even when alone in the cockpit, and it's more likely that nothing will be missed. Speaking out loud reinforces concepts.

Not all pilots practice this principle, but you'll find me talking to myself as I check my instruments on the taxiway: "Attitude indicator – level and stabilized. Vertical speed indicator – zero rate. Mag compass – swinging freely and full of fluid..."

In the clouds, I find myself talking even when it's not in support of checklist items. My voice keeps me company. It's very lonely inside clouds when flying by yourself, and it can be all too scary when you take time to realize you've chosen to go into a cloud in a metal object hurling through the air at 130 knots. The psychological advantages of talking to yourself are often more important than any other benefit.

On my float, I sometimes talk up a storm. At least it seems that way, since my own voice may be the only live spoken words in a week. Talking to myself might provide, in this case, a reversal of the aging process. It's somewhat reminiscent of baby talk – sounds expressed only to hear simple words, with no reply expected: "Hey, Rubber Duckies."

* * * * *

Early one morning, I'm engaged in city-like multitasking, as I prepare to go to town. I'm up early, packing the trash and taking care of all of the normal pre-town activities, while awaiting the weather report on the radio. As I work around the kitchen, I hear a faint whacking noise near the cliff steps. Stepping onto the front deck, I check for evidence of a critter but see nothing. Back inside the kitchen, I hear the noise again, but I don't investigate further.

One last necessity is a trip to the outhouse, so I grab the portable radio (still awaiting the weather report) and start up the cliff steps. I speed quickly through the area of the stairs where hornets built their nest last year, constantly prepared for their return.

I prop open the outhouse door with the shovel and sit down on the cold toilet seat just as the weather report begins. Immediately there's a sharp pop, which sounds like a rock hitting the wooden steps below me. Now there's another pop, closer this time. Through the open door of the outhouse, I see a small stone rolling down the path. These rocks are coming off the cliff above me, and now they are in rapid succession. Pop, pop, pop.

Someone is on top of the cliff, hurling rocks down at me, and they are landing very close to the outhouse. Correction – one reverberates as it hits dead-center on the outhouse roof. It's a hailstorm under clear skies.

It's John! Who else would play a trick like this on me? In fact, it's just like John – the perfect prank while I'm in the outhouse.

"Mr. Bear, stop throwing stones!" I yell as I sit on the toilet. But I know it isn't a bear throwing rocks. This is a distinctly human trait. Further thought along these lines makes it suddenly scarier than a bear.

John doesn't get up at 7 o'clock to throw rocks. John doesn't get up at 7 o'clock, period. Rocks continue to pelt the area around the outhouse, and an occasional bombardment hits the roof with a loud "Whap!" I push on the handle of my doorstop (the shovel), and the door opens a bit more. Across the bay at Number 2, there's no boat. John isn't there. He isn't here either. My mind races in all of the wrong directions.

Could it be the kids from the cabin next door? At 7 in the morning? On top of the cliff? The trail from the outhouse doesn't lead higher on the cliff, which raises a new question – how could anyone get up there without major effort? So my conclusion is a bit scary – it's a human, but not someone I know.

I'm ready to leave the outhouse, but these stones could hurt. I just want to get out of here fast.

As soon as I'm clear of the door, I start quickly toward the stairs. I don't look up (no rock in the face, thank you), but I do yell to try to make light of the situation:

"Mr. Bear, stop throwing rocks at me!" The rocks don't stop. Now one hits the ground right in front of me and rolls across the path. It isn't a rock. It's a pinecone. All around me are pinecones, rolling every which way.

When I'm clear of the bombing area, standing safely on my float, I inspect the top of the huge fir tree that dominates the cliff near the outhouse. It's the biggest tree in the area, nearly 100 feet tall. Running through the top of the tree are two squirrels. The pinecones (fircones) are probably perfectly ripe for breakfast. Maybe the squirrels are eating only the choice seeds from the cones and tossing their leftover food at the humans.

That evening, I inspect the area around the outhouse and find tattered seed-cones. If the squirrels are only nibbling in the trees, they are cleaning up their food cache later on the ground. Maybe the outhouse just happened to be in the line of bombardment. Or maybe squirrels don't like to be called bears.

* * * * *

The climb to the outhouse isn't like slipping into your home bathroom, so it's worth planning out the voyage. Almost never would I climb these cliff steps without consideration of multi-tasking on the trip. I might grab a bucket of garden weeds to add to the compost pile at the top of the hill. Although perched precariously on the side of the cliff, the compost pile supports the upper-level garden, which has sprouted potatoes, beans, and blackberry bushes.

On another day, I haul a sprinkler can of water for the upper garden, or the pee bucket to be dumped. A trip to the outhouse is a bit of a journey.

Every climb up the cliff includes a side-trip to the moss-covered granite bluff overlooking the Hole. The outhouse itself looks down on the Hole (prop the door open with the shovel for a room with a view), but there's a particularly panoramic spot just a few feet beyond. On this granite bluff, I store a folded plastic chair and a footrest cut from a stump. Glorious summer days are spent sitting in the chair with a good book (all books are good here), feet propped up on the stump, overlooking the Hole.

On days when my outhouse visit is brief, I still spend a few minutes on this bluff overlooking the Hole. From this vantage point, I can see five float cabins. It's always interesting to see if anyone is home – is there a boat docked at any of these floats?

From this viewpoint, my breakwater is ever changing, the floating stumps rearranging themselves and revealing different portions of their underwater structure. From up here, it seems that you can look down into the furthest depths of the lake.

Over there, Buoy-Boy, a yellow and orange inflatable toy, clearly guards the entrance to the breakwater. He arrived at the Hole three years ago as a component of a water-toy set (ages 6 to 10) that also includes two small inflatable tubes for youthful racers (they still float in my natural swimming pool). The thin-rubber racing buoy isn't meant for all-weather action, but occasional patches have kept Buoy-Boy afloat, guarding the breakwater entrance on his 30-foot rope tether. He's the ideal wind vane and a familiar friend as I enter and leave the breakwater. With the changing breeze, he sometimes blocks the entrance, but bobs aside when respectfully nudged by my boat.

When I return to the cabin after several days' absence, Buoy-Boy is often marooned on the logs or stumps, driven to high ground by the waves. In such instances, my first act upon arriving home, even before docking my boat, is to free him from his imprisonment. I talk to him more than any of my other inanimate cabin friends, and we've developed a supportive relationship. He guards my float, and I keep him free to guard.

Only when I depart for the States does Buoy-Boy come aboard the float for a well-deserved rest. Lately, his thin seams have developed a leak that requires blow-jobs every few days, accomplished discretely while untangling his tether. A variety of rubber patches leave Buoy-Boy looking injured, but he wears his battle scars proudly.

* * * * *

One morning, departing for town, I notice Buoy-Boy in desperate circumstances. He's floating upside-down in the breakwater entrance. In strong winds, he has a tendency to float on his side, blown out to the full length of his tether. But upside down?

As I approach him in my boat, I notice he's not only upside down but also almost completely deflated. What is needed is more than a routine blow-job.

"Buoy-Boy! What happened?"

No answer.

"Don't you worry. I'm gonna get you back on your feet. What's needed is major surgery – later today."

I pluck Buoy-Boy out of the water, and untie him from his tether. I'm already on my way to town, so I'll take him along for the ride.

"Buoy-Boy, you're going to town today."

("I'm going to town! I'm going to town! I've never been to town before.")

"Oh, yes, you have been to town. You just don't remember it. In fact, you were born in town – at Canadian Tire."

("I'm going to town!")

"Not only that – I'll take you for a ride past where you were born so you can check it out."

("Going to town! Going to town!")

I shove Buoy-Boy under my backpack, next to the backseat. Although mostly deflated, he'll go flying in the wind that whips through the open boat, if I don't properly secure him.

We accelerate out of the Hole, and I glance at Buoy-Boy. He's happy, although scrunched under my backpack. He's going to town.

Cruising at 30 mph, now in the open water south of First Narrows and into the North Sea, I'm on autopilot (steering with my knees) and keeping an eye out for logs. I hit the attenuated wake of a crossing boat, and things shift within the Campion. Suddenly there's a rapid series of thumps as Buoy-Boy escapes from under my backpack and bounces off the canvas roof, then off the side window, then off the roof again. And "Whoosh" he's gone.

I watch him over my shoulder as he goes completely airborne. From my autopilot position, it takes a few seconds to throttle back and make a 180-degree turn. I keep Buoy-Boy in sight as I maneuver in a course-reversal. Although mostly deflated, he still soars about ten metres high in the 30 mph boat-breeze. Then he plops into the water, immediately hitting the boat's wake. He rolls to the left and then to the right, but he stays upright. To Buoy-Boy, this must be the equivalent of a hurricane in the open ocean.

I come back to idle and pass slightly to the side of the yellow and orange toy buoy. I rush back to the open aft end of the boat to retrieve him. He's smiling as I pluck him from the water.

"Buoy-Boy, you're having quite a day!"

("Quite a day! Going to town!")

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter 22

Save That Nail

Living off the grid is a process that's mostly self-taught. John, an expert in remote living, serves as my consultant, and provides me with an enormous advantage as I learn my new lifestyle. His companionship speeds my process of learning, and often prevents reinventing the wheel during the management of daily tasks. But there's no substitute for self-discovery.

Creative thinking comes quickly in remote environments, and I find it reassuring to discover that my innate intelligence can handle tasks never previously faced. Every discovery builds on the last, and innovation comes easier with time.

Nearly simultaneous with my introduction to float cabin life, solo overnight trips on the chuck reinforce the concepts of self-reliance and the management of limited resources. When you don't touch shore for several days and are restricted to a 23-foot boat, you get pretty creative. A piece of rope or an empty water bottle can become a powerful tool.

Respect for the environment means care in everything you do on the float. Gray water is acceptable for washing dishes, but there's no need to wash garbage into the lake. Every plate and spoon gets wiped as clean as possible with a paper towel before going into the sink.

I quickly learn to never throw anything away that might, under the most remote circumstances, be useful later. Since you normally can't predict what use most objects might have, it's best to set aside nearly everything except pure garbage for future projects. Even garbage itself can be recycled as useful compost.

Nothing is wasted. That's the First-Rule-of-John. At Number 3, some of my most treasured structures are recycled from the region. The bridge and stairs that connect my transition float to shore and the upper reaches of the cliff are engineering marvels. To build each of these structures from scratch from a contractor would exceed several thousand dollars, to say nothing of shipping costs.

The bridge isn't a simple structure, pivoting on the transition float and sliding in-and-out and up-and-down with changing lake levels. To say it's overbuilt is to say the least, but it's the perfect bridge for the job. The wooden stairs (complete with railings) are built into the cliff, and they alone are a project that must have looked daunting, even to John, when the cliff was bare. How he accomplished the task without dynamite and jackhammers is impossible to imagine.

The lower stairs were installed separately from the upper-level steps. These lower stairs provided the template for the balance of the job. John hauled the lower assembly of wooden stairs from twenty miles away in the high country. An old cabin was being dismantled, to make way for the newer Knuckleheads ski cabin. The stairs were a discarded structure that John could not leave to rot. The tossed-aside wooden monstrosity was perfect for the construction task at Number 3, but only John could envision it.

I try to imagine the work that went into getting this stairway structure to my cabin. John dragged the wooden assembly, with help from friends, to his pickup truck. Just getting his truck to the stairs' mountaintop location is almost impossible to imagine. He brought me to that spot on a quad, and explained that his truck sat in this same location in the mountains at the end of the E-Branch logging trail. It must have been a bitter battle between his old Ford and the trail, with a lot of stops to widen the path.

A utility trailer was needed to haul the wooden stairs out of the mountains. It would have been interesting around corners.

The stairs were routed to the Shinglemill and hauled in John's boat to Number 3. Then the imposing structure was modified for use as a cliffside access and installed in the present location. Next, John whipped out his chainsaw and began duplicating the structure all the way to the top of the cliff. When I walk across the rugged bridge and stare up at that long flight of steps, I see ingenuity, brawn, and fierce determination.

* * * * *

My John-built trailer was conceived as a boat trailer and converted to haul a quad and motorcycle (now two quads). John stripped the mostly-metal trailer to its basic frame, and began the conversion from there. Originally, a wooden plank with jagged edges supported the center beam, but John assured me he would replace the wood with metal (a donkey had chewed the plank for several years). I visited the construction site (John's yard) and found the trailer upside-down and bare to the basic frame. A week later, it was upright and slowly morphing into a quad utility trailer. When the job was finished, it came complete with step-by-step photos of the construction process. John never ceases to amaze me with the details.

Wood metamorphosis is his specialty. The gangplank from my main float to the transition float was a heavy structure – almost impossible to move by a single person. Since I prefer to retract the gangplank during periods of absence from the float (an anti-mouse provision), the hefty gangplank became an annoying challenge. One day, while preparing to depart for Los Angeles (and thus in a terrible mood), I tugged on the heavy gangplank to no avail. I repositioned myself on the float's stiff-leg log and started pulling again. Slipping off the stiff-leg, I fell into the water with a splash, soaking wet and already running late for my airline connection. That did it – I asked John to replace the gangplank with a lighter model.

The heavy gangplank had begun its life in the mountains as a discarded part of who-knows-what, hauled home by you-know-who. It remained solid and still useful for something, but its days as a gangplank were finished. The new gangplank was wonderfully improved – light, yet sturdy, and perfect for the task. The old behemoth moved to the rear of the float deck, sitting on two stubby logs as a bench. John couldn't discard this work of art.

When the engineering design for our garden float developed in John's mind (no blueprints, of course), it included the old gangplank. A walkway was needed to get to the on-off switch for the solar-powered watering pump which feeds the garden hose. On my next visit to Number 3, the old gangplank was serving its new purpose as a solid walkway for access to the switch and pump. Nothing is discarded, and nothing is wasted.

* * * * *

Little innovations impress me the most. One day, during a visit to my cabin, John was horsing around with me on the deck. We both plopped down on the picnic table at the same time, and a wood-rotted leg collapsed. I ended up on top of John, who was on top of what remained of the picnic table.

Wood rot is something that has to be lived with in this wet environment. Problems related to wood deterioration are usually solved by cedar construction for major structural components. All legitimate floats use cedar logs, but picnic tables have a short useful life. The legs go first because of the constant contact with the almost perpetually-wet deck boards (which are cedar).

I would have left the damaged picnic table behind as a repair project for the future, requiring a new two-by-four and John to replace it. But while we're still collapsed in a pile, John looked around the deck and spied a firewood log nearly the perfect size (to his perfect eye) to prop up the destroyed corner of the picnic table. He slid the log beneath the table's crossbeam, and the temporary fix provided a very stable repair. But before John called it complete, he slipped a thin wood shim from the kindling pile between the log and the table, grabbed his hammer (always nearby), and tagged a few nails into the improvised support. The table now sat more solidly than ever before.

The next week, John eyeballed the table and reminded me that he should repair it more professionally. I noted that the revised design was solid and aesthetically attractive in this environment. The temporary fix remains in place today. The other three legs will probably experience wood-rot failure before the shimmed leg weakens in the least.

* * * * *

At John's Number 1 cabin, an old boat sits docked in the same position for nearly a year. It has a makeshift plywood cover perched at an angle and a needs-to-be-removed hornets' nest inside. Previously, Jess' sister (this town is getting smaller by the minute) abandoned the boat near the shore of her cabin in the Hole in the Wall. It rode lower in the water every day and then started listing to the side.

One day, I arrive in the Hole to find the old boat almost completely sunk, only visible because it's roped to a huge stump. It sits there for months, just another landmark in the Hole. Then it suddenly reappears, half-floating at a precarious angle in the bay behind John's Number 2 cabin. John offered to pull the hulk out of its sunken position, if he could have the boat. The half-sunken boat is thus now moored to a stump at Number 2. Of course, John has a purpose. I just don't know what it is.

Over the next few months, he works on the severely deteriorated boat, patching it enough to keep the hulk afloat. He tears out the interior, stripping it to the hull, and rips off the entire top. The boat then spends a few weeks tied to my kayak dock for more extensive repairs, returns to Number 2's bay, and slowly begins to sink again as the winter rains arrive.

The topless boat is filling with water faster than John can bail it out. He constructs a temporary cover, but the relentless rain and leaks in the hull cause the boat to drop lower in the water and tip precariously as it swings on its stump mooring.

One day in December, John and I use my portable gas generator to power a homemade submergible pump. ("Careful with those wires," says John. "You could get fried.") We pump a steady stream of water overboard, making slow headway against the incoming rain, but the boat gradually rides higher. We go through several tanks of gas in the generator. Fortunately, there are no other residents in the Hole this winter day to hear the constant annoying drone of the engine.

When John heads back down the lake, I volunteer to baby-sit the operation for a few more cycles of the generator. A major low pressure system is approaching. It's already raining, but this doesn't yet count as a storm, and we need to make some headway before more water is added to the situation.

John accepts my offer, but he's nervous about my ability to tend the pump. To keep everything going, I need to crawl aboard the hulk's stern from my Campion and walk carefully across a precariously perched and soaked (ice-covered) piece of plywood. Then I shove the submergible pump ("Watch those wires!") even deeper into the bowels of the boat as the water is gradually pumped overboard. I shuttle back and forth to my cabin to stay warm. Every few hours, I maneuver the Campion into position and carefully "walk the plank."

Just before sunset, I refuel the generator for the last time, and listen to it run from my cabin deck. The generator drones on into the night, seemingly well past the point of fuel exhaustion. Then, it chugs a few last strokes in a shift of frequency, and suddenly stops. The Hole is completely silent, in contrast to the day's constant noise from the generator.

There's a purpose for this, but it's slow to come to fruition. In fact, a year later, the aged boat sits docked at Number 1. Someday it will be a quad barge, hooked to one of our boats, pulling our bikes to strategic launching points around the lake. For now, it's part of the background scenery at John's cabin.

* * * * *

Living on a float isn't unlike camping for an extended period. It's natural to recognize that you must protect the environment. If you don't pack out your trash, no one will do it for you. But, if it's something that might be recycled for another use, don't throw it away. Even routine by-products are worth salvaging, since all has to be brought to the cabin by boat.

During my first week of float cabin life, I begin pounding nails on the deck, and bend a few of them in the process. Pounding nails isn't something I do in Los Angeles.

As I pull the bent nails from the wood, I toss them overboard. A bit of steel at the bottom of the lake won't hurt anything. Margy watches from her seat at the picnic table, and finally intervenes after a few more nails go over the side.

"We might need those," she says.

"The bent nails?" I ask.

"Well, you never know, do you?"

The next few bent nails are set aside rather than tossed in the water. At the end of the day, I walk along the float planks and gather the nails, placing them in a plastic bag. They go to the bottom of my toolbox, where they have remained ever since. I haven't used them yet. But I haven't thrown them away, and I don't plan to. Someday, they will be used for something important. Of that I'm certain.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Epilogue

On the Phone

I sit propped up on my bed tonight, talking to John on the phone from my home in California. The first major autumn storm has roared through British Columbia, and Number 3 rode through it fine.

We discuss the supposed purpose of my phone call. Some dog medicine is on its way for Bro. Margy has done some research and has found a medical company that touts a miracle cure for Labrador Retrievers with joint disorders. It's a common malady in this breed of dog, and the miracle cure is a glucose-based drug. We're shipping a one-month supply, to include liquid and roll-on instant cures. It's worth a try. John has been canceling quad rides lately so Bro's joints aren't overstressed. He'll never cure Bro of running around in circles like a madman (not good for joints), but quad travel can be controlled.

John wants some guidance on the location specs for the new firewood storage float. It's another idea I dreamed up in very general terms, and it's been left to John to engineer into reality. The new float and its small shed is already complete, and tied to the breakwater at Number 3, ready to relieve the cabin's float of its heavy burden of firewood. The roof of the shed must protect the firewood from the rain, but we want it to blend in with the surroundings. We (John) have decided on an open-wall design with four side posts. That will provide better air circulation for curing of the firewood and is simple to build. Easy for me to say.

The roof of the new float nearly departed the scene during the latest high winds, but John was at Number 3 when the winds arrived (another of those coincidences, of course) and caught it just in time. He performed an immediate on-the-spot modification of the roof with his trusty hammer and nails. John must be pleased with the new firewood float, because when I ask how it turned out, he replies with a single word: "Skookum." It's a modest answer that I understand.

Earlier this week, he moved the Bayliner from the chuck to the lake, docking it for the winter at Number 3. Saltwater takes its toll on boats, especially engines, and this boat will sit almost unused during the rainy season. The Bayliner traps lots of moisture in the V-berth and galley area during the wet winter, so we discuss installing a moisture-reducing light bulb to warm the boat's interior. We (John) can run an electrical connection from the cabin's solar power system. The job will be simple (per John), but he isn't sure the system can handle the extra load during the winter. The bulb has to be hot enough to do the job, and electricity-producing sun hours are minimal during the short winter days. Maybe a timer should activate the bulb a few hours each day.

Our phone conversation continues for almost an hour. There's a new-model quad on the floor at Dan's shop, and this is the one John has selected for me. It's time for the upgrade from motorcycle. It happens to everyone eventually. If we buy before the end of November, the company throws in a winch and a $300 rebate. More importantly, it's red, and John knows I'll accept only yellow or red. I give him the go-ahead to barter with Dan, although there's supposedly no price-dealing possible on this model. John will prevail.

Thus, the real goal of my phone call is complete. I hang up with visions of Powell River rolling through me, and that's what I needed tonight. The place is real after all. My November visit will be brief – four days, including a travel day stacked on each end. If it rains (probably will), I won't get to ride my new quad. But that doesn't matter. I'll be back again in December for a longer stay. I should have reminded John to keep Christmas Day open, because we'll need to exercise our snowshoes on Mount Mahony. It's a holiday tradition.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
About the Author

From 1980 to 2005, Wayne Lutz was Chairman of the Aeronautics Department at Mount San Antonio College in Los Angeles. He also served twenty years as a U.S. Air Force C-130 aircraft maintenance officer. His educational background includes a B.S. degree in physics from the University of Buffalo and an M.S. in systems management from the University of Southern California. The author is a flight instructor with 7000 hours of flying experience.

For the past three decades, he has spent summers in Canada, exploring remote regions in his Piper Arrow, camping next to his airplane. The author resides in a floating cabin on Canada's Powell Lake in all seasons, and occasionally in a city-folk condo in Bellingham, Washington. His writing genres include regional Canadian publications and science fiction.
Books by Wayne J. Lutz

Coastal British Columbia Stories

Up the Lake

Up the Main

Up the Winter Trail

Up the Strait

Up the Airway

Farther Up the Lake

Farther Up the Main

Farther Up the Strait

Cabin Number 5

Off the Grid

Up the inlet

Beyond the Main

Science Fiction Titles

Echo of a Distant Planet

Inbound to Earth

When Galaxies Collide

Anomaly at Fortune Lake

Across the Galactic Sea

U.S. Pacific Northwest Series

Flying the Pacific Northwest

Paddling the Pacific Northwest

From the Author...

I appreciate you as a reader, and I'm thrilled you've read this book. If you're willing to assist me as a new author, there's something you can do right now. When you turn this page, this ebook publisher will provide you with an opportunity to review this publication – to appear on this book's advertising page. I'd be grateful if you'd take the time to write a brief review, even if it's only an overall star-rating and a short statement regarding your opinion of this product. Or maybe you'd prefer to Tweet/Share your opinion regarding this book – that too would be appreciated. Once again, thanks for reading!

Wayne J. Lutz
