Sointula, part one
This took place 4 weeks ago today. I passed out at 10:30 tonight, after eating two burritos. Then June woke me at 2:30 for a walk, because I am a jerk and didn't give her one in the evening. I am registered in 7 classes, 6 of which started today. I'm going to drop chemistry and stay in mammology, because I did the listen-to-my-body hand thing Jo showed me. Also I would probably regret not taking mammology more, though I am sad to not be pursuing those little valence electrons.
I realized recently that I have no idea how to write. I have no real way of assessing which details are less important and can be removed, so I just leave everything in & everything I write is too long. INNER CRITIC, WHERE ARE YOU? Oh yes. You're busy tearing apart everything I've ever said or done wrong in my interactions with others. Carry on, then.
I wake at 9:00 in Elisabeth's tent. I've planned to go to Sointula today while she & Ryan are at work, & I'm filled with anticipation. They've left me some sandwich fixings and I have two. I try unsuccessfully to access the campground wifi & give up, put oranges, crackers and hummous in my pack & head out on the Fiori. The air is moist & the sunwarmed breeze carries me down to the dock, pebbles shooting out from under my tires on that initial gravel hill out of the campground. I pay $14 for my ferry ticket and get on the boat- I've arrived just in time for the 10:25 ferry. The man at the front watches me park my bike & says "you look like you're on an adventure!" I confirm this. I ask him where the beach on Malcolm Island is, and he directs me to Bear Point, 6 km from the dock.
On the upper deck I root through my backpack, put on the sunglasses Elisabeth has loaned me. A moment later a man is holding my passport, asking the 4 or so people on the deck whose it is. I run over, tell him it's mine, & he makes me tell him my full name before giving it to me. He stares at me now, with hair, and at me two years ago, with a buzz cut. I appreciate the sentiment of wanting to make sure it is returned to its owner but never enjoy hearing my middle name pronounced the way it looks. I momentarily judge him for his small teeth, decide that he is likely a criminal or insane or both. I promptly forgive him and we talk about ethnobotany- I show him my licorice fern rhizome & he tells me about a friend who studies mushrooms, sometimes on mushrooms. He's a coho salmon fisherman and he and his partner are doing some fishing off Malcolm Island- or they’re not allowed to & are taking a holiday, I’m not really sure. His partner is a sweet looking Aboriginal woman who says nothing to me, but smiles under her sunglasses. I study his mouth while he speaks, but I actually don’t know how to lip read & ferries are noisy. When he’d seen my passport & my bike helmet he’d thought that I’d biked from Winnipeg. Between Port McNeill and Malcolm Island is Haddington Island, where Stellar Sea Lions pause on their annual migration. As we are approaching our destination I bid the couple adieu and go back downstairs, where the man at the front of the boat shows me Malcolm Point, and behind it, Bear Point. He assures me you can't miss it. There are signs and it's the popular part of the island to visit, including a beach at Beautiful Bay. I walk my bike off and head up the road onto the main drag. The general store has brightly coloured Sointula hoodies, some with fish skeletons, hanging outside. I want one but I want my $40 more, for highway robbery food on the way home. I buy a Jazz apple & a lighter, and the lady cheerfully IDs me.
Biking & biting my apple past the pub, the library, the museum, signs for The Burger Barn: “where the locals eat”. The apple is intensely delicious, though I regret its journey from New Zealand to my mouth. To my surprise I’ve had trouble finding local fruit on my travels through BC. By a wharf is a pay phone, & I use it to call my parents. My mom has recently moved from her apartment into her yoga studio, & my dad seems a bit concerned that I'm heading in the wrong direction if I'm supposed to be coming home. I assure him that tomorrow I'll turn around and get into Vancouver, be in Winnipeg by Thursday. He doesn't seem to care that this is "the best little hippie island" so I give up trying to convey its appeal and get back on the lovely teal & magenta Fiori. My left knee & bumcheek hurt from yesterday's trek, but I have to get to texas but I have to get to Bear's Point- & then I see a sign: BERESPOINT 6 KM. That kind of Bere. It also advertises Beautiful Bay, which turns out to be the stretch of shore between Malcolm & Bere Points. I try to guess if I'm halfway or not, my knee wincing with every pedal. It’s a bit hilarious that after 66 km, 6 is killing me. Had I more time in the Port McNeill area I would put Malcolm Island off for a day, but I need to get home to make a bit of money and have some fires before school starts. I’m pulling into the Bere Point Campground, grateful and thirsty. I drink most of my water, remembering the sign I saw closer to Sointula: No Fresh Water at Bere Point. I decide that it will be some kind of test of my ability to survive in the wild with limited supplies. For some reason my supplies today include a joint and a John Irving novel.
I leave an offering in the outhouse and stop a woman in a 101 Dalmations sweater with two kids to ask her where I can swim. She gestures at the water directly in front of us, which is full of shreds of wood. This is an unacceptable swimming beach. I examine the campground’s map. There’s a trail along the coast, heading back the way I just came, to Malcolm Point. An average time to go the 5 k from Bere Point to Malcolm Point is 2.5 hours, the map tells me. It also notes beach access 0.4 km from the beginning of the trail, the Puoli Valley canyon as the halfway point, and SANDY BEACH between the canyon and Malcolm Point. I decide to shoot for the sandy beach. I find it adorable that a very large (212 feet) Sitka Spruce is marked on the map. A couple is also studying the map, holding fishing equipment. He has dreadlocks and she looks like Sunny Ackerman, a friendly, petite Wolseleyite with blunt cut hair that swoops out just past her ears. They’re going to check out the shore at the canyon as a fishing spot. They start out and I get back on the Fiori, deciding that I can bike the hiking trail & therefore do more swimming & get down to the Burger Barn before catching the 4:45 ferry back. No, no I cannot actually bike this trail. My belief that I can make things different from the way they are using only my mind has failed me again. I carefully hide the bike in a salal bush, not having a lock, figuring I’m on a hippie island & can manifest my intention to not have it stolen.
I realized recently that I have no idea how to write. I have no real way of assessing which details are less important and can be removed, so I just leave everything in & everything I write is too long. INNER CRITIC, WHERE ARE YOU? Oh yes. You're busy tearing apart everything I've ever said or done wrong in my interactions with others. Carry on, then.
I wake at 9:00 in Elisabeth's tent. I've planned to go to Sointula today while she & Ryan are at work, & I'm filled with anticipation. They've left me some sandwich fixings and I have two. I try unsuccessfully to access the campground wifi & give up, put oranges, crackers and hummous in my pack & head out on the Fiori. The air is moist & the sunwarmed breeze carries me down to the dock, pebbles shooting out from under my tires on that initial gravel hill out of the campground. I pay $14 for my ferry ticket and get on the boat- I've arrived just in time for the 10:25 ferry. The man at the front watches me park my bike & says "you look like you're on an adventure!" I confirm this. I ask him where the beach on Malcolm Island is, and he directs me to Bear Point, 6 km from the dock.
On the upper deck I root through my backpack, put on the sunglasses Elisabeth has loaned me. A moment later a man is holding my passport, asking the 4 or so people on the deck whose it is. I run over, tell him it's mine, & he makes me tell him my full name before giving it to me. He stares at me now, with hair, and at me two years ago, with a buzz cut. I appreciate the sentiment of wanting to make sure it is returned to its owner but never enjoy hearing my middle name pronounced the way it looks. I momentarily judge him for his small teeth, decide that he is likely a criminal or insane or both. I promptly forgive him and we talk about ethnobotany- I show him my licorice fern rhizome & he tells me about a friend who studies mushrooms, sometimes on mushrooms. He's a coho salmon fisherman and he and his partner are doing some fishing off Malcolm Island- or they’re not allowed to & are taking a holiday, I’m not really sure. His partner is a sweet looking Aboriginal woman who says nothing to me, but smiles under her sunglasses. I study his mouth while he speaks, but I actually don’t know how to lip read & ferries are noisy. When he’d seen my passport & my bike helmet he’d thought that I’d biked from Winnipeg. Between Port McNeill and Malcolm Island is Haddington Island, where Stellar Sea Lions pause on their annual migration. As we are approaching our destination I bid the couple adieu and go back downstairs, where the man at the front of the boat shows me Malcolm Point, and behind it, Bear Point. He assures me you can't miss it. There are signs and it's the popular part of the island to visit, including a beach at Beautiful Bay. I walk my bike off and head up the road onto the main drag. The general store has brightly coloured Sointula hoodies, some with fish skeletons, hanging outside. I want one but I want my $40 more, for highway robbery food on the way home. I buy a Jazz apple & a lighter, and the lady cheerfully IDs me.
Biking & biting my apple past the pub, the library, the museum, signs for The Burger Barn: “where the locals eat”. The apple is intensely delicious, though I regret its journey from New Zealand to my mouth. To my surprise I’ve had trouble finding local fruit on my travels through BC. By a wharf is a pay phone, & I use it to call my parents. My mom has recently moved from her apartment into her yoga studio, & my dad seems a bit concerned that I'm heading in the wrong direction if I'm supposed to be coming home. I assure him that tomorrow I'll turn around and get into Vancouver, be in Winnipeg by Thursday. He doesn't seem to care that this is "the best little hippie island" so I give up trying to convey its appeal and get back on the lovely teal & magenta Fiori. My left knee & bumcheek hurt from yesterday's trek, but I have to get to texas but I have to get to Bear's Point- & then I see a sign: BERESPOINT 6 KM. That kind of Bere. It also advertises Beautiful Bay, which turns out to be the stretch of shore between Malcolm & Bere Points. I try to guess if I'm halfway or not, my knee wincing with every pedal. It’s a bit hilarious that after 66 km, 6 is killing me. Had I more time in the Port McNeill area I would put Malcolm Island off for a day, but I need to get home to make a bit of money and have some fires before school starts. I’m pulling into the Bere Point Campground, grateful and thirsty. I drink most of my water, remembering the sign I saw closer to Sointula: No Fresh Water at Bere Point. I decide that it will be some kind of test of my ability to survive in the wild with limited supplies. For some reason my supplies today include a joint and a John Irving novel.
I leave an offering in the outhouse and stop a woman in a 101 Dalmations sweater with two kids to ask her where I can swim. She gestures at the water directly in front of us, which is full of shreds of wood. This is an unacceptable swimming beach. I examine the campground’s map. There’s a trail along the coast, heading back the way I just came, to Malcolm Point. An average time to go the 5 k from Bere Point to Malcolm Point is 2.5 hours, the map tells me. It also notes beach access 0.4 km from the beginning of the trail, the Puoli Valley canyon as the halfway point, and SANDY BEACH between the canyon and Malcolm Point. I decide to shoot for the sandy beach. I find it adorable that a very large (212 feet) Sitka Spruce is marked on the map. A couple is also studying the map, holding fishing equipment. He has dreadlocks and she looks like Sunny Ackerman, a friendly, petite Wolseleyite with blunt cut hair that swoops out just past her ears. They’re going to check out the shore at the canyon as a fishing spot. They start out and I get back on the Fiori, deciding that I can bike the hiking trail & therefore do more swimming & get down to the Burger Barn before catching the 4:45 ferry back. No, no I cannot actually bike this trail. My belief that I can make things different from the way they are using only my mind has failed me again. I carefully hide the bike in a salal bush, not having a lock, figuring I’m on a hippie island & can manifest my intention to not have it stolen.