Coming around to the reality of a new day, with a head like a haunted house.
Which is fitting, because over the road there is one – the old pub, filled with zombies and ghouls for the karaoke contest last night.
Even the alley cats were cowering.
Leaving Cumberland mid-morning, heading up the coast under clear blue skies, driving into more remote parts of Vancouver Island, traffic noticeably thinning.
I take a turning for Brown’s Bay Marina, for a bumpy ride along a lengthy unpaved road through dense forest, eventually dropping down to the picturesque harbour.
On the entrance to the parking lot, a handful of locals are busy carving up logs into animal sculptures, completely absorbed.
The results of their incredible skills will be monumental, I’ve no doubt.
Down in the marina, scores of boats and yachts lined up and bobbing around in the clear air; the floating restaurant, getting prepared for a special event … delicious cooking aromas emanating out and over the water, giving the summer air a distinctive smoky tang.
It’s the perfect place for a late morning wander, to clear the head of the heaviness which lingers from last night.
Everything peaceful and still, occasional small bursts of activity here and there. All looked on by the quiet nature of the surrounding hills and mountains.
Back on Highway 19, through endless forest and a pitstop at Woss.
Pulling into the gas station / local shop, where I can buy a ridiculously large hunting knife with my sandwich and lottery ticket, if I was feeling so inclined.
Around the corner to the old train, restored and gleaming in the sun, in front of the mountain landscape.
I have to make my own train noises … pleased that no-one else is around.
At the Eagle’s Nest Rest Area, no eagles just other loud squawking birds … warning everyone driving past that the john is occupied.
I take another turn-off from the main highway, along the paved road to Telegraph Cove, which opens out to a busy harbour village, perched on stilts.
So busy that there are parking restrictions.
Strolling around the brightly-painted wooden buildings, a constant flow of tourists who have come from who knows where, to browse the market stalls and displays of handmade crafts, arts, woollens, baked treats.
To the other side of the marina, where the folk down below are busy gutting fish, while boats drift in and out.
Arriving in Port Hardy in late afternoon, dragging my gear towards the hostel at the exact same time as a guy gets out of a car behind me, loudly emitting a ridiculously operatic and prolonged bear-like yelp … making me jump.
This is my welcome ceremony, I figure.
He proceeds to follow me directly into the hostel with his travelling buddies, so the person at the counter initially assumes we’re all together.
After the late night I had last night, I’ve not arrived here in a great mood for all of the boisterous banter and innappropriate wisecracks which subsequently flow.
So quickly pay my money and skulk off to the private annexe, hopeful I’m not being followed again.
Thankfully there is peace and quiet to be found in the private quarters, but little in the way of a view out of the window.
So I jump out of it and take an early evening walk down to the ferry, and along the waterfront.
I find Carrot Park, an assembly of monuments and flagpoles new and old, each one erected in recognition and gratefulness of being able to be here now.
I salute the scene by raising my smartphone to take a picture, in landscape.
It’s all I can do to then mull this over with a beer and a very agreeable plate of fish tacos down at the Sporty Bar & Grill, while local families and couples drift in and out for dinner and drinks.
Outside is a winning view of the harbour, which smothers the whole scene in a comfort blanket.
And as frequently happens, I smile to myself and wonder … how the hell did I get here?
With drive and determination – in a rental car.
And yet I’m indebted to the opportunity and circumstance which has allowed me to do this, to be here, on the other side of the world.
The walk back to my apartment takes me past another totem pole, a storybook of culture, legend, belief and lineage.
It makes me feel small.
An Outside World 