Sandra-Kay Austin

Ever taken a cruise to Alaska?  We just returned from one and I thought that you might enjoy a tiny glimpse.

Right Before My Eyes

Glacier Bay!  I’m actually in Glacier Bay! The ice-blue, ridged-back serpent of a glacier rested between the green snow-capped mountains at the nearest end of the bay as if it had grown weary after crawling part way into the sea.  Suddenly it groaned and shed a small part of itself, calving right before my eyes.  Wow! How many people get to see this! My gaze followed the new baby bobbing in the aqua waters as it fled from its mother. Adjusting my stance at the ship’s rail, I noticed that it was heading straight for some odd-shaped icebergs.  Hey, that one looks like a polar bear. Amusement surfaced in a grin.  Don’t be silly.  You’re still way too far south for them.  Oh, is that a seal on that berg? Nope.  Just a rock. Too bad. I glanced at the row of searching faces lining the rail beside me and then scanned the smooth water again.  Come on now Sandy, you’re used to spotting wildlife. Find a seal.  Point out a whale or some porpoises. This is a once in a lifetime chance for some of these people. A frosty gust of wind blew my hair into my eyes and I pulled it out again. This is ridiculous! I see more at home.  Oh we don’t have mountain goats.  There might be some over there. Focusing my binoculars on some ivory blotches on a rocky ledge on the steep mountainside, I waited for them to move.  More rocks.  Well maybe I can spot a bear. I regarded the slim strip of clear grey land off to the right that was beside the water.  Not even a black bear.  And I was hoping for a grizzly! My eyes rose to the partly cloudy sky.  Well, at least there should be eagles here. Two moving specks stopped my binoculars in mid-arc. Gulls.  It figures they’d be the only thing I’d see. Right then my husband let out a sharp, “uh!” and my face snapped to the left.

“The wind just blew my hat right off,” he said, putting words to the surprise that was written across his face.
My eyebrows rose.  I watched as he pulled his nylon hood up to cover his bald head.
“I tried to catch it but it just grabbed it and carried it away.”
Looking into his sad blue puppy-dog eyes, I asked, “Didn’t you have your hood on?”
“I did.  And the Velcro was fastened.  But the strings weren’t tied and a big gust whipped it off.”  He groaned.  ”Now I don’t have a hat.”
Aware that his shiny dome would easily burn or freeze, I quickly soothed, “You can buy a new one in Ketchikan.”

“Maybe I should buy one of these,” Allan suggested uncertainly a few hours later.
I regarded the tan baseball caps stacked on the narrow poolside table.  When he picked one up, my eyes zeroed in on the red patch above the brim. White ship in the middle with the cruise line’s name in blue above it. He tried it on and I thought, not too bad. How much is it? The bold black numbers on the white sign silently responded, “2 for 19.95″. Ten dollars?  That’s a bargain. My gaze skimmed across the assortment of shirts, mugs, and knickknacks displayed on the teeming tables in both directions.  Wonder if there’s anything I want? Then a fashionably-dressed salesman appeared by Allan’s elbow and I sauntered away, my husband’s question about the price soon lost in the hum of voices.

The view of Ketchikan caused me to pause on the steep gangplank the following day. Nestled by the water beneath the mountains its pastel-coloured buildings sprawled sleepily along both sides of a paved street in what appeared to be the area’s only flat space. Charming.  And lots of shops to explore later. My finger jabbed in the direction of the horse-drawn-cart parked on the huge wooden dock a short distance below us. “It’s over there,” I said, glancing back up at Allan.  “Looks like fun.  I’m glad we got tickets.”
“Me too.  We should be able to get a real good overview of the city.”
Nodding to the Filipino crew member providing security at the bottom of the ramp, I stepped past and waited for Allan. “We’re doing Creek Street afterwards, right?  Remember we want to find a souvenir for the mantle.”
“Yeah.  We’ll have lots of time now that I don’t have to search for a hat.”

My face fell later that afternoon as I assessed the items offered for sale in the Creek Street.  Can’t anybody carry anything but the usual touristy stuff and really expensive jewellery? I picked my way through the crowded room, walked out a door at the other end, and spied a table loaded with folded T-shirts hugging the near by wall.  The ones I bought at the other store were cheaper. And they look like better shirts. As if agreeing that I’d made a wise choice, the red bag holding my purchases made a sharp crinkling sound when I stuck it under an arm. I chuckled before reading the sign on the small A-frame ahead. Australian opals, Alaskan gold, handcrafted exclusive jewellery, handicrafts, and wood carving.  Now, that sounds promising.

“It’s a dolphin.”
My gaze left the smooth carved wood creature in my hands and rose to the oriental male face. “Oh, I didn’t think there were dolphins way up here?  Have you seen them?”  I watched the sleek dark-haired-head dip toward his chest.  After that his black eyes met mine and confirmed it.  For a second, I was puzzled.  But dolphins are tropical animals…oh wait. Isn’t there some kind of whale that looks like a dolphin?…Yes, I think they’re in my book. I turned the animal over, checking the grain and looking for flaws. “Okay.  I think we’ll take it.”

Bedtime already!  I can’t believe that our seven day cruise is almost over. The stateroom phone jingled and surprised by a late-night call, I stopped packing to answer it.  “Hello?”
“Hello Madam. I’m calling about the overcharge you complained about.”
The male voice sounded agitated and I blinked. “Oh yes.  We were billed ten dollars too much.”
“What item did you purchase?  I’m trying to figure out what charge could be ten dollars?”
The derision in his voice stiffened my spine.  Hey, maybe ten dollars isn’t much money to you but it’s a lot to me. I took a deep breath. “It was a baseball cap that my husband bought at the poolside sale.”
“I see.  Did he buy anything else?”
“No.  Just a hat.  His had blown off and he needed one.”
“Yes.  I remember him.  I asked him if he wanted to buy another item and he insisted that he only wanted the hat.  The hats were two for 19.98, madam.  He had the opportunity to take another item.  The bill is correct.  Enjoy the rest of your cruise.  Good night.”
Stunned by the ice-cold tirade, I heard the line go dead and Allan’s voice inquire, “What did he say?” I set the receiver back in its cradle, repeated the conversation, and watched his cheeks flame.
“He lied to you.  I asked him if it would be ten dollars if I only bought one hat and he said yes.”
“But you didn’t check your receipt.  I looked and it says 19.98.”
“He told me that they’d change it to the sale price when it went through the front office.”
“Well, they didn’t.  And there’s nothing on the receipt to say that.” I shrugged.  “We don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“I know.  But there are sure going to be a lot of unhappy people tonight because he was telling everyone that.”
Maybe.  But a lot of people won’t even bother to fight it.  And anyway, he’s slick.  There’s nothing you can do the way he wrote the receipt.”  I tried to smile.  “Well, you ended up with a nice hat anyway.”
Allan’s expression made it clear that he didn’t think that much consolation. “Yeah.  But I have lots of hats at home and I wouldn’t have paid twenty dollars for it.  I’d have bought one on shore.”
The bitter taste of dishonesty making my stomach churn, I murmured “Just forget it,” and tossed my shoes into the suitcase.

What if the other salesman lied too?  After all he wants to sell his work too. The words, like an annoying song, kept returning to my brain the whole way home.  Enough.  It’s time to find out, I decided, padding over to the thick book about North American wildlife that was on my desk. Oh please let there be a whale in Alaska that looks like a dolphin.  Only a fool would buy a tropical fish to remember Alaska by! I thumbed partway through the large coloured pictures of marine life before my hand froze. Baird’s Beaked Whale. Why it does look like a dolphin! Leaning closer, I took in the text.  Yep it lives there. A grin leapt into my eyes.  He was honest! They look so much alike that he just thought he was looking at a dolphin when he was looking at a whale. I proudly placed my prize on the mantle, my day sweetened by his honesty.

With all the wonderful food and experiences tasted during our cruise, I find it odd that the moral character of two salesmen would leave such an aftertaste.  Makes me wonder if my own values and principles leave an aftertaste in the lives of others.  And if they do, is it as sweet as honey or as bitter as lemons?

This month I’m trying out something a little different.  If you like it, maybe I’ll repeat it once in a while.

Connections

At last! It’s time to get to know her! Our Matrix entered a series of hairpin corners and a rich blur of golds, maroons, and greens slid by the window behind my husband’s face when I smiled at him.  My eyes swung to the smooth reflecting waters of the lake zigzagging through the steep sunlit mountains on my side of the car.  The peaceful scene on the way to the west coast of Vancouver Island failed to calm my excitement. Peering up the ribbon on twisting black tarmac, I wondered, what will she be like, this future daughter-in-law from far away Thailand?  Why had the missionary friends who introduced them suspected beforehand that she might be the one to capture my son’s heart?  Who was this exotic Thai flower? A thousand questions filled my mind.  I knew so little about her.  What did she enjoy?  What grabbed her thoughts?  What touched her heart? I wished I knew if we had even connected at all through our brief correspondence.

Sitting at my desk today brings similar questions and feelings about you.  For months I’ve been sharing little snippets of my life, stories, and poetry that I hope brought enjoyment, provoked thought, or touched your heart in some way.  Little gifts from me to you.  Now, it’s time for me to get to know you. What have you enjoyed reading? What has made you think?  What has touched your heart?  What do you wish I’d write more of?  What’s on your wish list for future entries? Connect with me this month.  Post a comment below the pictures on this entry.

With fall already peeking around the corner, thought you might like to come along with me on a late summer hike.

Changing Seasons

An almost unnatural silence hung in the still air beneath the sky of puffy silvery clouds as I donned my cotton jacket in the parking lot.  Seven years and I finally get to see what’s here.  Too bad we couldn’t make it when the wildflowers were out though. Everyone says it’s so beautiful then.  But I guess the end of August is better than never. A wistful little sigh escaped as I followed my husband across the crunching gravel, heading for the fir tree entrance to Strathcona Park’s Paradise Meadows.

Surprise flickered in me when the feathery green corridor opened up after only a few feet.  Then, my breath caught at the sight of an abstract bog carpet of muted rusts, maroons, and greens, surrounded by an evergreen circle.  A grey boardwalk lay atop the carpet like a necklace displayed for sale and we made our way to it.

Soon voices interrupted our comfortable silence and a burst of quick hard thumps covered the rhythmic thuds of our steps on the dry planks.  I smiled when two bright-eyed children in colorful jackets raced past me. Nodding to the grinning parents who were playing catch up and weaving around me, I thought, years ago we could have been you. My eyes warmed and found my husband’s advancing back. Just you and me now kid. He squatted to capture a glassy finger of water on film and I waited, my heart dancing at the sight of a graceful dragonfly hovering and swooping through the nearby air.

A few minutes later I strode away, feeling like a child leaving a room with a newly discovered toy in hand and on the way to explore more rooms. A small meadow of inch-long bright-red-trimmed spikes punctuated by the odd mauve daisy evoked an admiring “oo.”.  A fluffy Canada Jay swallowing a berry in a meadow of Bog Blueberry entertained for a few moments.  A meadow of slivers of reflecting water framed by soft brown and pale gold spears caused me to linger. Leaning against the wide wooden handrail on a bridge, my eyes dropped to the six-inch-long grey-black spotted trout fry that were wriggling slowly through the shallow clear water.  Just moments later the urge to see what was ahead grew too strong to resist and I moved on.

“Well which way do we go?”  My eyebrows rose because my faithful leader seemed puzzled.  What’s the matter? You read maps. This one should be a cinch after the ones we used to read in Search and Rescue. I stepped closer to have a look at the colorful map sign. Right after Allan questioned its accuracy, we were distracted by a passing woman handing out grapes and snacks to half a dozen or so noisy preteens.  My gaze returned to the map once they were gone and I raised a finger to trace one of the lines. “Why don’t we take the trail that goes off here and go up to this lake.  It doesn’t look far and we can always turn around.”

Finally, some exercise. My breathing’s quicker and my heart rate’s coming up. A sense of accomplishment rushed through me. I glanced down at the steep forested mountainside on my left, straightened my shoulders, and plodded on up the nearly deserted dirt trail.  After a short distance the bush revealed its treasure: a delightful little oval alpine lake. The solitary fly fisherman submerged to his hips in the calm green water at the far end resembled a small plastic figure plopped into the pastel icing on a cake and I raised my camera before we turned back.

Bouncing down the trail, my heart sang with gurgling mountain streams, shuddered as I took in huge trees ripped out by the roots or felled by vicious storms, and soared at the postcard views of chalets on Mt. Washington. Then male voices announced a group of hiking-boot-clad backpack-wearers who were on their way up. Must be heading into the backcountry, I guessed, shouldering up to the steep dirt bank to let them by. We could have been you a while back. Feeling strong and invincible. Ready to conquer the world.  Even if that world was just rough narrow trails, heavy packs, sore muscles, freeze-dried food, and cold nights on hard ground.

When I entered the meadow again, it looked as if the earlier invasion of hikers and tourists had never happened.  Five o’clock.  Getting time for us to think about heading home too. My foot tilted to the left, slanting with boards starting to give under last winter’s tremendous snows.  A few more weeks and most of us will leave the frosted slopes and wind-swept meadows to the hardy.

After hopping up yet another shallow step, I realized that what appeared to be a family of adults was gathered just ahead.  My eyes zoomed in on the center of attention, a frail senior who was heavily transferring his weight from a cane to a weathered plank bench.  Suddenly, it happened!  His pale blue eyes gazed out at the still meadow and softened. His thin mouth curved as if he was meeting an old friend.  He exchanged a smile with me as I was passing and I couldn’t help but think, I could be you in the future. Glancing over my shoulder a second later, I saw that the wrinkled face was already turned toward the meadow. It is beautiful, I agreed.  All of a sudden, my imagination conjured up a picture of it clothed in summer’s brilliant blooms. It must have been dazzling.  But was it any lovelier than when it showed off spring’s vibrant green attire? Or nestled under winter’s thick white cloak? It must be beautiful then too. My mind drifted back to those who had enjoyed its autumn beauty that day. People clothed in the innocent curiosity of the very young, the brave enthusiasm of youth, and the experience of maturity. People dressed in the beauty of every season of life. I wondered then if most of us actually even see the beauty that those close to us wear during life’s changing seasons.

Mount Washington Ski Runs In Background

Battleship Lake

Ever been to an estate sale?  You just might get a wake-up call.

For Sale

“Want to check out some garage sales and an estate sale?” my husband asked, and I grinned.  Searching for new-to-me-treasures in owned-by-someone-else’s-stuff. What fun!

The back of the car optimistically emptied, Allan slipped behind the wheel.  “Let’s see where the estate sale is.”  He poured over the map. “Oh, I know where that is.  I’ve been up there before.”

“Up there” I discovered was in a subdivision of huge modern homes on the eastern ridge above Courtenay.  It was new turf to me and as Allan watched addresses, the spectacular view to our right lured my eyes away from the task at hand.  Peering across meticulously-landscaped spacious areas between roofs, I took in the azure sky, the snowcapped peaks, and the sparkling Comox Glacier. Glancing into the valley as I exited the Matrix, the two shimmering rivers that framed the northeast corner of the lively City of Courteney snagged my eye. Then a cluster of bright balloons at the end of a steep paved driveway just ahead of the car pulled my gaze up to the stately peach-coloured stucco home perched on the hillside.

Plodding up smooth pavement that glowed in the sunlight like a cat’s satiny black coat, I exchanged a tiny smile with a fine-featured little girl and nodded to the slim man who was tugging her along.  That must be some driveway in winter, I thought, stepping onto a large level spot.  My eyes zoomed to the piled-high long tables spilling from the open double garage doors like crackers from a box. When a middle-aged couple with a vase walked toward me, I worried, hope the good stuff isn’t all gone. Not many here though….Let’s see what’s here..  Books and small household items.  Glasses, dishes, and linens.  Junk jewelry on the wall.  Lots of silver and bone china.  Wonder what’s in these boxes?

My hands rummaged through a box of multi-sized multi-shaped gadgets, most of which I couldn’t identify or had no use for.  Noticing a collection of large decorator plates by Allan, who was just ahead, I padded over to study the delightful detailed scenes on their gleaming surfaces. Lovely but no room to display them even if I could afford them. Suddenly, it dawned on me that Allan was moving past tables as if common rocks were on display. I watched as he strolled out into the sunlight again. Hope he doesn’t want to go already! He sauntered towards a banner marked, ‘Guy Stuff” and my lips turned up.  Inching over to a collection of bone china, I slowly ran my eyes across the exquisite pieces.  Quite a selection.  But a bit overpriced.  Oh…this is only two dollars!

My fingers carefully grasped the four Royal Windsor coasters. Sunny spring days in the garden returned to mind as I admired the dainty flower bouquet reproduced so skillfully in the center of each gold-rimmed white coaster. I must have read the price wrong.  It must say twelve. With bated breath, my gaze skipped back to the blue ink scratched on the small white sticker.  It does say two! My heart leapt! How perfect! We can even set mugs on them when we’re playing games. Clutching my prize to my chest, I stepped sideways to regard a dazzling everything-from-salt-and-pepper-shakers-to-trays silver collection that looked as if it belonged in an antique store or museum.  Wow!  Who has this much silver?  It might be worth the sticker-price but I sure wouldn’t want it. The box of small mixed kitchen utensils next to it caught my eye.  Hey, I need more of those!

Grabbing the fifty-cent set of stainless measuring spoons as if they were made of solid gold, I fought back a chuckle. It sure doesn’t take much to make me happy! Paperback books had been tossed every-which-way into the next box and I began to flip titles up. My ears perked up when a female voice behind me softly remarked, “I have better things to do than polish silver.”  Exactly, I agreed wordlessly, recalling how I always put off polishing the few pieces that I own.  “And look at all this china.  Nobody wants china any more,” the voice went on and I couldn’t resist the urge to glance back at the two thirtyish-something-looking women.  Thinking of how seldom I use my own set of Royal Dalton, I mutely added, right, it doesn’t go in the dishwasher. And who feels like washing dishes after entertaining? The women ambled toward the back wall to assess the out-of-fashion jewelry and I smiled, wondering what they’d say about it.  I wonder if anyone wants half this stuff these days, crossed my mind as I was picking up a hand-embroidered dresser scarf. The fresh scent of laundry soap filled my nostrils.  Someone spent a lot of hours on this. While I was still taking in the perfect little stitches of the elaborate floral decoration on one end, Allan’s blue shirt appeared beside it. My gaze swung to his hands.  Empty.  Looks like he’s ready to go though. I peered around for someone to pay and a pair of watchful eyes just outside the garage met mine.

The cornflower blue eyes brightened when Allan plunged his fingers into his bulging change purse. Then the short blonde woman gave me a friendly smile.  We discussed our summer-like spring weather and the fabulous view from her home.  Then, as if we were still discussing such trivial things, she explained that her father-in-law had just passed away and that they were selling off the things that he had collected on his travels around the world.  My heart went out to her. I uttered my condolences but she just shrugged and thanked me as if I’d passed her the salt at the dinner table. I guess they weren’t close, I surmised, seeing no hint of loss in her eyes.

Sadness lurked about the corners of my heart as we headed for the next sale.  Had distance kept this daughter-in-law from growing close to her husband’s father?  Or had he, as so many do, simply chosen to pour the bulk of his time, energy, and money into collecting material treasures? There was no way of knowing but even the possibility caused me to ask, am I investing in treasures such as caring relationships that can’t be bought or sold?   Or am I only scurrying about acquiring things that can be sold off to strangers?  I guess maybe we all need to ask ourselves those questions once in a while.

Courtenay in the Comox Valley

Snowcapped mountains behind Courtenay

Comox Glacier behind Courtenay

As love takes the stage again this February due to Valentine’s Day, are you glad or groaning?  Here’s a personal story that should get you thinking about it anyway.

The Silent Shout

The deep red stood out like a splash of bright paint on a tan canvas.

“Oh,” I said, in surprise, “What’s that?’

Glancing that way, my husband replied, “Just some artificial flowers.”

His tone of voice told me that he wasn’t impressed that they had floated in to mar the natural beauty of this perfect little cove in Pacific Rim National Park.  Tugging the hand that he was holding, I started in that direction.  My shoes dug into the soft sunlit sand as we walked along the high-tide-line of seaweed, shells, and lifeless crabs.  “No.  They’re real roses.”

A dozen blood-red roses lay on the pale sand, the edges of their velvety petals discoloured and curling, their dark green stems secured by a faded blue ribbon. What are they doing here? Something stirred in my memory.  “Isn’t this the beach where those Japanese tourists drown?”

My husband nodded.  “Yes.  South Beach.  A rogue wave swept them into the sea.”

We looked over at the mass of steep black rock that was jutting out into the sea behind us. “Someone must have been here remembering someone they lost,” I murmured, waves of sadness sweeping across my heart like the waves of seawater that were sweeping onto its jagged edge. One second. One huge unexpected wave. And instantly, someone was gone.

A few weeks later, I was reminded of that experience on a sunny breezy day that felt more like Fall than the end of August.  Smiling and clasping hands that afternoon, we exited the chair lift at the top of Mt. Washington.  My breath caught when I saw the birds-eye view.  It was a masterpiece only The Creator could paint: the alpine ski resort in the foreground and stunning Strathcona Park spread out behind, complete with rolling emerald hills, glassy lakes, and snow-capped cloud-touched peaks rising into a blue sky.

Soon, lured by the promise of similar vistas, we started along the dirt trail on the same side of the treed summit. A white-haired couple with friendly smiles and a landscape of steeper ridges greeted us when we reached a lookout on the northwest side. We shot a few pictures near the drop off and then, not wanting to intrude on the seniors on the bench any longer, moved on.  Helping one another, we hopped up and dropped down the rocky, uneven path as it meandered along the sheer edge.

“What’s going on?” I asked, when Allan stopped and I couldn’t see past him.  He stepped slightly to the right and I saw that a young girl with blowing golden curls was blocking the trail. Just then, the slender man behind her poured some seed into her tiny outstretched hand. A grey Canada Jay fluttered down, landed, and started to peck at it and the child’s blue eyes sparkled with delight as her rosy wee mouth rounded in awe. My heart melted and tenderness appeared on the male face behind her.  Right after that, another jay fluttered down to a branch just above my husband’s shoulder.  He raised the camera and captured it on film, and then, hoping that we wouldn’t disturb the happy scene, we crept past the birdwatchers.

Pausing to explore short less-used side paths that took us through the spindly trees to secluded viewing spots where earth met air, we gradually made our way around the rocky top.  Then suddenly, the east side of the Island, the Straight, and the distant Mainland stretched out far below us.

“Looks like it was taken from a plane,” Allan remarked. “Hey look at that wine glass.”

I pulled my eye from my camera and realized that an elegant stemmed glass was sitting on a flat rock near our feet.  My first thought was that someone had been enjoying a glass of wine with their scenery and had forgotten to take the glass home with them.  After that I noticed that the rounded glass top was full of white wine and that the glass was right beside the roped-off cliff.   “Maybe someone was remembering someone who went off here,” I murmured, picturing a partly drunk glass of wine in another hand.  Someone imagining what once was, what should still be, and what will never will be.

The roses and the wine glass still haunt my memory, even though summer is long past.  Somehow, they both seem sad reminders of the fragility of life that silently shout to all, who is in your life that you would miss this much?  And how can you show them that today?

Ever did something that made you feel like a fool?  I did while I was wrapping up my North Island trip.

Port Hardy. The centre of North Island life and favorite destination of outdoorsmen, photographers, and adventurers.  I have arrived! Already I’m gripped by the sense that time is slipping through my fingers faster than sand through a sieve.

Shortly after my husband and I check into our hotel, our gnawing hunger sends us to the hotel restaurant.  Although the succulent Chinese food and lazy friendly ambiance tempt us to linger, the siren song of the closest beach is loud and we soon scurry back to the room for our warm jackets.

The cool breeze presses my coat against my back as we clasp hands, turn right, and begin to crunch through the gravel out from the log and tree-lined edge. I eye the scattered shells we pass but they’re broken or uninteresting.  Suddenly smoke tickles my nose.  Scrunching it up to squelch a sneeze, my eyes follow the grey plume over to where several generations are enjoying time together by a fire near the blackberry bushes. Feeling like intruders, we move toward the ocean.  The ebbing tide has left a long path of wet packed gravel and our feet instinctively seek it.  I glance up at the mercury-coloured sky and then meander on beside slate-coloured white-tipped waves that repeatedly dance nearly to my feet, hesitate, and retreat as if they are shy.  When I look ahead again we’re almost at the point. Noticing the odd-shaped blobs that are marring the natural beauty there, my curiosity is pricked. I realize that they look like rusted debris that floated in from some shipwreck as we are approaching.  Allan might as well be talking nonsense to me when he begins to identify half-buried and scattered mechanical parts and machinery. I quickly lose interest.  Turning away, my attention is grabbed by a two-and-a-half-inch bleached barnacle that resembles a giant disc from some sea creature’s spine. The outside feels like well-used sandpaper and the inside like marble when I stick a finger into the thumb-high oval.  Yeah. Good for my collection. Just after I happily tuck it into a jacket pocket, the diminishing light reminds us that our time on the beach has seeped away.

The lure of the outdoors is strong within me the next morning. Braving the drizzle alone because Allan is working, I strike out early to gather mementos and memories.  A brisk stroll through deserted residential streets takes me to a child-filled community park. Weaving around the edge of the boisterous active school group, I head for a silver sliver of space between two tall Firs. The bay where the whales play in August is mine at last.  Underneath the muted misty sky, the tranquil ocean covers the land like a steel grey satin sheet.  No arching black bump or geyser.  Not even a seal. I wonder across the flawless sand, place a plastic grocery bag on a wet log, and seat myself.  Not many shells here, I think, before a gangly Blue Heron standing in the shallows near by catches my eye. The big scraggly bird peers intently into the shallow water by its tall tan legs for some time.  Then its long bill darts down to snatch a bite of breakfast.  After it straightens its slender neck and swallows, a white seagull distracts me.  My gaze follows it as it floats down with grey wings outstretched and grabs one of the numerous tiny crabs that are skittering about. Nestling into my damp coat, I notice the clam in the yellow beak of a gull approaching from the right.  The bird drops its prize on a boulder as it flies by, splitting the hard cream-coloured shell apart with a loud whack, and then returns to it.  While it’s feasting on the tender morsels of exposed meat, a piercing cry drowns out the soft sounds of children at play.  Eagle. But it’s in the treetops where I can’t see it. Its haunting call is a reminder of the home that I’ll soon be travelling toward and I force myself to walk toward the trees.

My journey back to the mid-island begins with an odd mixture of reluctance and contentment. The insatiable desire to experience more of the new and unfamiliar seems to be wrestling with the desire to return to good friends and familiar comforts.  As the car thrusts me ever closer to my everyday life, memory insists on flinging me back into the trip that interrupted it.  Wipers swishing slowly across the rain-streaked windshield in front of my staring eyes, I find myself reviewing the trip’s wildlife count. A Bald Eagle, one skinny raccoon, seagulls, ravens, turkey vultures, songbirds, one Black Bear close-up, and a Great Blue Heron.  Maybe I can see something else before I reach home. My eyes search the postcard perfect scenery that is zipping past.  Suddenly a bog sneaks from the heavy forest and streaks boldly through an opening alongside the highway.  Perfect habitat for moose. I scan its soggy ground and brackish water, until the futility of my search hits me. There are no moose on Vancouver Island! Shoulders shaking from silent laughter, I silently ask, what kind of a fool searches for something where it doesn’t exist? The question echoes through my mind long after the bog melts into the distance behind me.  As I ponder it, it occurs to me that I know people who are searching for things where they don’t exist.  They’re looking for happiness, self-worth, and love, in things like alcohol, sex, drugs, material possessions, and other people’s opinion.  That’s pretty much like looking for moose on Vancouver Island, isn’t it?

Been waiting for the promised details about that slice of bustling coastal life I saw on my trip to northern Vancouver Island?  Well here they are.

I perk up when our Matrix turns right and plunges into the temperate rain forest on the rough dirt road to Brown’s Bay on the east coast.  What will I see? Black-tailed deer, Cottontail Rabbits, or Raccoons like at home? Or something more unusual like a secretive cougar? A skinny grey raccoon with a bushy ringed tail erupts from the brush on the right side.  It hesitates in the middle of the road, turning its pointed black-masked face to us, and then darts off into the foliage on the left.  Not too long after that, we break out of the trees and the delightful half-circle of bay with the fish processing plant pressed to its left side shows itself.

A salty breeze whips my brown hair across my eyes as I step out into the warmth of the sun in the small three-row parking lot.  I glance at the empty concrete boat launch a short distance from the vehicle’s silver hood.  Then I watch Allan walk over to the muted green building.  Right after he disappears inside, a strand of shampoo-flavored hair blows into my mouth.  I pull it out but another rush of sea air pushes it onto my cheek before it flits off up the hill.  When I turn my face to the gleaming ocean, another gust thrusts my shoulder-length strands straight out behind me.  Okay, I give up.  I’m retreating to the shelter of the car.

Once the windows are down and I’m lazing comfortably in my padded high-backed seat, the ambiance of this charming little place begins to sink in.  Screeching seagulls circle the shiny aluminum-sided plant. Others swoop around fish boats cutting through the white-crested sapphire waves just beyond the small bay.  A grey gull glides down and lands on the wooden dock that slashes across the quieter water out from the car.  I notice two large commercial fishing vessels are moored at opposite ends of the long thin dock.  The machine-laden decks of the hundred-foot ships appear deserted. I take in their painted hulls of black and dark green, curved white cabins with semi-circles of dark-glassed windows, and sophisticated silver antennae systems pointing up to the blue sky.  Then my eyes are drawn to the bright orange oval floats on two similar but smaller white fishing boats tied near them.  They sure look cluttered and grubby. My gaze swings left, to the almost completely occupied vertical slots along the sheltered side of dock. A regal white charter boat takes up the two end spaces.  If only it could talk.  What fishing adventures it could tell! I move on, attracted to the cute little yellow sailboat and four fine cabin cruisers interspersed between the tired-looking motorboats and dinghies. And where have you been? I ask them, imagining sunset dinners in secluded paradise-like coves.  Suddenly, a glossy black Raven startles me by flapping down to the packed gravel beside my door.  It cocks its head and peers up at me hopefully.  Sorry, no handout. Realizing that I’m a no-sell, it loudly squawks its displeasure and flaps off toward the plant.  Workers must feed it.  But when?  The place looks deserted, except for the two men repairing the end of the dock.

I watch the two men do more talking than working for a short time, and then, a metal landing launch bounces into the bay.  The single-car-carrying-barge drifts up to the ramp and jars to a stop when its tailgate hits the cement with a muffled thump. It dawns on me then that a small black pickup is about to back down the ramp.  Guess it’s bringing something to the barge. Sure enough, a lithe man in a white T-shirt jumps out and the tanned boat driver helps him to stack closed cardboard boxes all along the silver sides of the launch.  How could all that come out of that little truck? I wonder, right before they pull out a western saddle and a huge duffle bag and carry them aboard too.  When the slender young truck driver returns to his vehicle, I watch him like he’s a magician about to pull a rabbit from his hat.  However, he just closes the tailgate, hops back into the driver’s seat, and drives away up the slope. My gaze returns to the launch but it remains where it is.  What’s it waiting for? I think I have my answer when the pickup driver returns, but then, it simply creeps over to the dock and slips into an empty space.  Before I can come up with a reason for its strange behavior, a sandy-haired man in a full-size brown pickup is backing an empty boat trailer down the ramp.  Must be expecting someone in a boat. After he climbs out, he catches me by surprise when he jogs away through the parking lot.  A little confused, I watch as he rushes out on the dock.  Then he jumps into a small brown and white cabin cruiser, the motor roars to life, and it comes bobbing toward me.  Once he has bumped the boat carefully onto the trailer, I watch him energetically winch the fasteners tight, rush back to the truck cab, and tow the sleek boat quickly out of sight.

For a few moments, the bay naps beneath its see-through salty sheets and sunny blue blanket.  Then the low growl from a black four-wheel drive pickup reawakens it.  My eyes follow the progress of a boat trailer with a bright orange zodiac plopped atop it down the cement until it jerks to a halt at the water’s edge.  Soon an athletic -looking young couple slip from the truck cab and expertly slide the large flat rubber oval into the water beside the ramp. I watch as they fill the middle with an assortment of bulky odd-shaped items. Then the truck with the empty trailer clatters past me again and into a parking space.  When the robust man returns, his arms contain a squirming blonde toddler and a small yellow life preserver.  I’m a bit surprised when he sets them down in the zodiac near the twin engines and walks back up the ramp, leaving the pony-tailed woman the challenging task of fighting her young one into the life jacket and keeping the raft against the cement. Right when I begin to wonder if he’s ever coming back, he prances down the ramp again with a buff-colored spaniel.  It wriggles all over when it reaches the zodiac and leaps eagerly into it.  Just then, I realize that the motorized launch is returning and a dark green SUV is about to back down the ramp. A few seconds later a mixed bag of people spill out the vehicle’s doors and begin to jam luggage and supplies into vacant spaces on the launch.  Soon the roar of a single-engine floatplane drowns out their chatter and friendly banter.  I look towards the Straight where it’s rising and realize that the zodiac is bouncing swiftly away in that direction. After it rounds the point, I watch the people-and-goods-crammed launch raise its tailgate and slosh past the fish plant.  Then, a huge semi rumbles past my tailgate.  As it is backing up near me so that it can make the tight turn, I spot its exuberant little passenger, a Jack Russell Terrier.  The white dog with the copper eye-patch leaning through the open window turns its toothy smile on me as it passes.  Yeah, I smile back. Sometimes the summer ride is just so good that all you can do is smile gratefully and wriggle all over.

Taken a trip lately? I did

“Want to come with me this time?” asks my husband, Allan.  I nod and smile.  Ah, northern Vancouver Island.  Wilderness and wildlife viewing from the comfort of our car. You bet I’m going with him on his business trip!

A few days later, I say a temporary good-bye to the squirrels and feathered friends that hang out at my tiny half-acre mid-Island sanctuary.  Soon the untamed forest north of Campbell River has gobbled up the quaint houses and rolling farms sprawling along the two-lane winding highway. As we drive inland, through miles of rolling emerald hills flanked by rugged white-capped mountains, a stately Bald Eagle soars near the tops of the tall dense evergreens.  I shrug it off as rather ordinary.  After all, I’d heard a rhythmic swoosh of air a few days earlier, looked a short distance above my head, and been treated to an unusual underbelly view of the huge white-headed, brown-bodied, white-tailed bird that had sent chills down my spine.  No, I’m looking for something that I don’t see as often.  I peer around for the elusive Elk portrayed on the yellow warning signs along the road. Allan tells me that he’s only seen them at night. Well then, how about a cougar?  Yeah, that will do.  Only seen one in my life, walking through a meadow at dusk, and that was years ago.  Wasn’t the North Island supposed to be full of them?

The morning is as bright as a shiny new dime when we turn off onto a dirt road that will take us back to the east coast.  I wonder if I’ll find anything but a stark metal fish packing plant at the end.  Little do I know that I’ll soon be savoring a delicious slice of bustling coastal life.  Think I’ll leave the details for next month.

Back on the highway, sunlight and blue sky give way to heavy grey cloud as we draw closer to the mountains.  Shortly after that fog wraps its thick fingers around the jagged peaks towering around me.  As I shiver in the gloomy dampness, half a dozen Turkey Vultures circle the timber ominously where something is dying or dead.  Suddenly, rain pounds the car, obscuring my view with torrents of water.  Allan switches on the windshield wipers and heat.  Then, a few miles down the road, he turns them off again when sunshine transforms the cold foreboding mountains back into welcoming friends.  Songbirds sing joyfully in glistening alders swaying in the breeze at the roadside rest stop where we pause for lunch.  Basking in the Sun’s warmth and embraced by sheer mountainsides that seem close enough to touch, we stretch and eat our sandwiches.  And then we’re off again, driving on through flipping postcard scenes of changing weather and spectacular scenery.  June in the mountains.

The Sun has pushed the clouds aside again when swing onto the paved road into scenic Telegraph Cove.  Whale watcher’s paradise. We scope out the expedition headquarters and cheery buildings around the empty bay from a high point, glance at the marina, check out the commercial side of things, and head back to the highway.  No whales.  Still farther north, I guess. Two one-lane bridges crossing shimmering crystal-clear creeks later, the frost-heaved road stretches out between wide shoulders of lush grass.  All of a sudden, we both say, “Bear.” Cool. A short distance from me, the feeding Black Bear is sideways to the road and down on all fours.  Looks like a shaggy Newfoundland dog. My eyes drink it in.  The rounded head with half-moon-shaped ears, broad forehead, and long snout that is partly concealed by tall green blades.  The slightly curved shoulder, lean side, and rounded well-muscled bottom above the swaying grass spikes. I notice that the fur along its back glows a warm chestnut color in the bright light before the car rolls slowly away from it.  Now that’s the way to see a bear!  Safe, but close enough to see the whites of its eyes.

It seems as if bears like to hang out in Port Hardy too.  The hotel clerk tells us that eight tourists had just been totally enraptured by one that was rummaging through the hotel dumpster.  She says they thought it was so cute that they asked if they could feed it.  I raise my eyebrows.  Not a good idea.  Don’t they know it’s dangerous?  Don’t they know bears get aggressive and increasingly demanding if you feed them? I glance out the lobby window and see a bundled up smoker shivering on a bench.  I guess bad habits can be like bears.  Suck you in by showing their cute little teddy bear side, while hiding the side that can tear you apart.