Grizzlies, Gales and Giant Salmon. Pat Ardley
sister could order a side of beef from a local butcher in Vancouver that she would share with us. The butcher would freeze our nicely wrapped portion and box it up for Marilyn to deliver to the Coast Guard in Vancouver. Our district manager in Prince Rupert told us that we would have to get the captain’s permission to allow this box to be carried on their ship. George checked who the skipper would be for the upcoming trip and learned that it would be the crabby-pants fellow, so it was unlikely that he would grant permission. Also, the boat might have taken two weeks to get from Vancouver to Prince Rupert and might not have stopped here on its way by. In which case the meat would have sat in Rupert for a month before being sent down here. Marilyn’s plan just wasn’t going to work, so we were back to ordering super-expensive meat from Prince Rupert.
We used Ray’s little boat to cross Fitz Hugh Sound and drive up Kwakshua Channel almost to the other side of Calvert Island. There is a narrow slip of land at the end of the channel where Ray said we could safely anchor the boat and walk across to a nice beach. We anchored the boat with an ingenious method using two ropes. George coiled the anchor and one rope over the prow of the boat, then he attached a second rope to the first one and took it to shore when we climbed out onto the beach. George pushed the boat off the beach and when he was satisfied that it had floated to a safe spot, he jerked on the rope in his hand and the anchor dropped overboard securing the boat nicely in deep water. Then he tied his end of the line to a huge cedar tree.
A note about the terminology: Growing up on the Prairies, when I heard someone talking about going to “the beach,” I always thought of pretty, blue, calm, fresh lake water and long stretches of white sand with people lying about on towels and lounge chairs, radios playing the latest rock music and five popsicles for a quarter. People in this wild coastal country call anything between the ocean and the lowest branches hanging over the water “the beach.” It can be made up of mucky mud, broken clamshell, heavy gravel or jagged, barnacle-covered rocks and still be called “the beach.” It was hard to wrap my head around this.
On this beach, there was an old cabin just past the high-tide mark built by people from Ocean Falls about twenty miles away. Anyone was welcome to use it. We followed a trail that led out behind the cabin and crossed the island to the west and the open ocean. The forest here was quite different from the rest of the island, with less underbrush and very large trees but farther apart. It was quite easy to follow the trail between the trees, huckleberry bushes, and barberry and Oregon grape shrubs. We passed a giant cedar tree that had a huge scary mask carved into it that was painted deep red and blue and had a huge pointed nose sticking out. Then a little farther along the trail was a tree that had been bent down and then around so that it grew straight back up. It created an almost two-foot round frame for people to peek through to have their picture taken. There must be thousands of photos of happy faces in that frame. We later learned that a certain Dr. George Darby had slowly and patiently shaped the tree over all the years that he lived in the area. He had been working as a medical missionary based in nearby Bella Bella throughout the year and in the Rivers Inlet area during the sockeye-fishing seasons for over forty years, from his first season shortly after graduating from medical school in 1914 to his last in 1959 when he retired. Many years later the tree was knocked down by an overzealous logger trying to make his fortune with the surrounding trees.
We followed the trail for a few more minutes picking huckleberries as we went, then once again came to a very different type of forest. The trees were smaller and mostly coniferous with old man’s beard moss gracefully trailing from the branches in great long tendrils. The forest floor was covered in thick soft moss with low trillium flowers and tiny lady’s slipper orchids peeking out. The light filtered down through the trees and gave the area an otherworldly feeling. It was enchanting and I half expected to see fairies dancing about. We could hear the waves rolling and crashing onto the beach but couldn’t see water yet.
Over many years, medical missionary Dr. George Darby bent this tree on Calvert Island. The tree is situated on the route to what we called West Beach. Everyone who crossed the island to West Beach had to stop and have their photo taken through the frame.
There was a bit of salal to push through, and then we stepped up onto a log with a clear view of the most magical stretch of white-sand beach and bright blue ocean with waves curling up and breaking onto the sand. It completely took my breath away. The beach was at least a mile long with logs all akimbo at the high points where they had been pushed up by the tide and winter storms. It curved around slightly with rock cliffs at either end. There were several tiny islands with short deformed and gnarly trees a hundred yards offshore. We leaped off the log and ran and ran and ran. I hadn’t realized how much I missed stretching my legs. I felt free and laughed and cried as I ran, the clean white sand squeaking with every flying step.
We then slowed to a stop, turned and stared at the beauty of this incredible place. How could we be so lucky? We hadn’t been told how special this beach was. Just past the winter high-tide mark the beach was lined with low bushes and in a few places there were steep, sculpted rock walls. Along the walls there were narrow ledges with wild strawberries growing as if someone had planted them there. The bushes were all slanted away from the water, and the trees beyond them were beaten, twisted, gnarled and pushed in that direction by savage winter winds. Tall grasses were growing high up on the beach with purple beach peas and bright red fireweed safely tucked in amongst them. Lanky columbines, yarrow plants and huge cow parsnips grew above the tide line. About halfway down the beach there were sand dunes that gradually rose fifty feet high that we climbed and then threw ourselves down, stumbling and leaping, shrieking and rolling to the bottom. Then we picked ourselves up and walked along the waterline where the sand was wet, and seaweed and shells were washing up on the waves. The water was icy cold but it felt wonderful when I stood still and it eddied around my bare feet as the sand slipped away from under them.
We walked back to where we came out of the woods and built a fire to cook our go-to hiking lunch of hot dogs. Even looking for bits of firewood felt special as we poked around under logs and cut hot-dog sticks from the shrubbery. We sat quietly on a log and stared out to sea while we ate. We were full of the wonder of this place. It was here on this beach that we first talked about getting married.
Visitors and Visiting
We had the luxury of a few visitors at Addenbroke. Every few months, and if weather permitted, the Thomas Crosby V, an eighty-foot ship owned and run by the United Church, anchored in the bay, and the minister would row to shore and climb up to the wharf.
Sometimes his wife and a few of the crew came with him. They had a small library on board, and it was a treat to be able to pick up a few extra books and trade ones I had already read. We didn’t discuss religion, but we did enjoy having someone new to talk to. George and I both felt a spiritual connection to the beauty and grandeur of the wilderness setting of the island, and the minister appreciated and understood our feelings. They were often keen to have a bit of a party, and it seemed to us they were just happy sharing their joy with the often forgotten remote communities along the coast.
In the middle of August, George’s mom and dad came for a visit. They drove to Port Hardy on the north end of Vancouver Island and then flew in a Gulf Air float plane right to our island. The pilot circled a couple of times before landing on the water and taxiing into the bay. This gave us time to run to the wharf, lower the speedboat and then motor out to meet them. George’s dad, Ernie, climbed eagerly down the airplane steps and into the boat, then George and the pilot had a heck of a time manoeuvring George’s mom, Irene, out of the plane, down the three steps onto the pontoon and into the little bobbing boat. It was like trying to stuff a cat into a tub of water. I was anxiously waiting on the beach and willing her not to tip out the other side. I couldn’t tell for sure, but Irene had the look about her like she might have had a wee dram before climbing into the plane.
Irene and Ernie were great houseguests. They were interested in everything we did, and we were happy to tell them all about our secluded life here and how amazing it was that we were still enjoying spending all our time together. That afternoon, George took Ernie fishing and they caught a beautiful coho. We planned to celebrate with a wonderful dinner of fresh salmon and lots of