Bits and Pieces from the Edge of the World

We talk a lot about the weather on the islands of Haida Gwaii, because it is so immediate, and so present, in a way that I do not find inland, except maybe high up on a mountain. But we don’t talk so much about rain or sun—they both happen. Instead, we talk about the wind. Rain doesn’t stop anyone from doing anything. And most days are mild and peaceful. A guest once asked me during a stretch of breezy weather, if it was always like that. I had to think about it, and then to say that it is not always any one thing. It’s always different.

 The islands of Haida Gwaii are at latitude 53 north, and longitude 132.3 west. Portland, Oregon is 45 32 North and 122 40 West. That puts the distance between them, as the tern flies, at about 670 miles north and west. The coast range in Oregon usually breaks up the big storms that whirl across the Pacific Ocean—gale, storm, and hurricane force winds (with the notable exception of the Columbus Day storm of 1962, with gusts recorded up to 93 mph). But the little comma shaped set of islands that make up Haida Gwaii don’t even look like a mosquito to those magnificent, whirling storms.  And oh, when the wild winds blow, they sound the horn that is my heart.

 The wild wind can stop the ferry from running, whipping the waters of shallow Hecate strait up into waves that are12 meters high. A fierce cross-wind can stop the plane from landing, making it turn tail and go back to Vancouver. The wind can, sadly, stop you from going fishing. But if you are not concerned about that, and there is no need to be, since it does no good, it is wonderful. The birds soar and sail, effortlessly, letting the wind, well, be the wind beneath their wings. I swear they do it just for the joy of it–eagles, seagulls, ravens, sometimes soaring in place while the wind rushes under them, sometimes scudding along like feathery leaves.

 And other than walking in the storm, leaning into the gusts, and bracing yourself and laughing when one comes sideways, the best part is sitting by the fire inside, watching the storm. And if the power goes out, lighting candles, and playing cribbage by candlelight, and eating food cooked on the camp stove. And then the storm will pass, and the day usually dawns clear, quiet, and innocent-seeming, with only the branches and needles blown from trees to tell that there really was a wild wind.

That morning in late August in Sandspit, in Haida Gwaii, there were no guests, and I woke up without the alarm to a bright day. With no guests, I cooked breakfast only for Cody, the Dancing Dog. The delivery of breakfast brings on the dancing, which I can certainly understand.

 As I walked into the kitchen, I looked out on the bay, as I always do, and it was low tide, with pools of water reflecting the blue and white sky. Framed by the gap in the bushes where I put the bench was an eagle, out at the edge of the beach, waiting to ker-pounce on the next little thing unwise enough to scuttle out from under a rock, or wiggle in a tide pool. Also framing the eagle, across the bay, was the fattest, softest rainbow you can imagine. Before it went where rainbows go when the light changes, it let me feel its colors and texture long enough that I will always see it.

 Today was a day for the short ferry ride to the other big island, Graham, the one I see across the bay. The mist cuddled the tops of the hills on both islands while the sun warmed my face. There is no wind, and the water barely ripples as the ferry crosses. The landing at Skidegate approached. Technically, I guess the ferry approaches it, but that’s not how it feels.

First is the trip to the city. It was called Queen Charlotte City, until it filtered back to the government in Ottawa that there were only about 1000 people who lived there, and it got downgraded to the Village of Queen Charlotte. Alas. City or village, it’s much bigger, and busier, than Sandspit. There are several places to eat, and drink coffee, and shops and the credit union and the hardware store, and several lodging places, both motels and B&Bs. A tee shirt they sell there says “Welcome to Queen Charlotte City, a nice drinking village with a fishing problem”.

 I realized that I had something that I rarely had in the summer—time to use as I liked. Dishes were done, floors were washed, beds were made, and no guests were due in. So I took Cody (who of course was with me because he is The Dog Who Goes) a little way up the highway (the only one on the island) that goes north, up Graham Island, and mainly right next to Hecate Strait. I finally went to Balance Rock, which I had passed by for years. It’s a big rock, yes, balancing on another rock. And no, I couldn’t tip it. The beach there is made of rock that looks like it was poured from a pitcher and left to cool, and other rocks of many colors.

 A young eagle sat on a rock rising out of the water, and the water was a miracle. The sky had streaks and patches of clear and clouds, and where the sun came through, brilliant sparkles scintillated across the water. That is why I can’t wear sequins. I believe that no one will ever say, if I wear a sequined shirt, “She looks like light on the ocean on a day of small dancing waves”.

Fall on the islands offers a cornucopia, a kaleidoscope of weather. Sun, clouds, sun-and-clouds, rain, mist, showers, howling wind, stiff breeze, gentle sighing breeze, stillness. All, sometimes, in one day. Sometimes the same thing for a few days. Everything in between. Today the sky is blue above with clouds to the north, and the bay is rippling with a stiff breeze from the west. The sun and the rain this fall have worked one of the annual wonders here on Moresby Island, Haida Gwaii. It’s mushrooms.

Wikipedia says that a mushroom is the fleshy, spore-bearing fruiting body of a fungus. Just makes you want to say it three times fast, doesn’t it? But naming them doesn’t even touch the wonder.

There you are, in the forest in Haida Gwaii. These are not tame woods, although humans don’t have much to worry about unless, as humans do, they get stupid. There are no moose, no wolves, no coyotes. There are black bears, who mostly would do anything rather than encounter you, and they can figure out you’re coming before you can figure out they are there. There are little deer, who definitely don’t want a close encounter of any kind. There are different kinds of forest.

There’s a little old growth, or old second growth—big spruce and cedar, some hemlock, growing big and tall enough that the ground is almost always shaded. And the earth gets settled, and the trails the critters make get established, and it is—almost—park-like. But that’s not where the mushrooms grow.

There is brushy forest, young, crowded, full of alder and vine maple and baby conifers—really, it’s a nursery for the cedar and hemlock and spruce babies. But that’s not where the mushrooms grow.

The place to look for mushrooms is in the under the big hemlocks, thin enough that a bit of sunlight hits the ground here and there, with a thick carpet of moss that muffles the sound and makes walking like something you’ve never done before. It’s all been logged, back a way, so there’s a lot of fallen this and that under the moss—piles of branches, and old tree trunks and maybe old boots. But you can walk on it and it’s almost spongy, but mostly dry. And if you fall, chances are you just roll in the soft moss. Sometimes you feel like falling and rolling around on purpose. Oh, and the quiet. The birds are elsewhere. Sometimes, startlingly, you might here the shrill chitter of an irritated black squirrel.

And as you walk you find glades, and mounds and steep hillsides that are easy to get up and down because of the moss, as long as you don’t mind using all fours from time to time. And secret creeks wind their way through the forest, and all you can think of is what is around you. And mushrooms.

Because most places, at the right time, you’ll start seeing chanterelles, little golden singers, poking up through the moss just wherever they are. And it becomes a magic hunt, as you cut off one after another, and keep walking though the woods, and keep hunting. I don’t even know if it’s the mushrooms anymore—I think they’re just the excuse to get into the woods, although they are like the rose on the icing on the cake.

And later, after you go home, and light a fire, because it’s late in the year that the mushrooms come out, and you clean the last bits of moss and forest soil from them, you’re still in the woods. And you’re smiling.

There’s a reason they call these islands–Haida Gwaii (the Queen Charlotte Islands)–The Edge of the World. If you walk on the beach, it is a surprise to see another human, although eagles and huge ravens are everywhere, along with many other birds, and seeing seals and porpoises and, now and then, a whale, is not a surprise. The land rises starkly from the ocean, and the hills are clothed in spruce, hemlock, cedar, and alder, springing out of a mossy carpet that makes a walk in the woods nearly silent. On a clear day, you can see across shallow Hecate Strait to the mainland, maybe 60 miles away. But the islands are perched on the edge of a shelf, and off the west coast of the islands, suddenly, you are riding on top of 6000 feet of water, and you are in The Big Water, looking toward Asia.

 A friend of mine used to say that people come to the beach because they can run no further. This is just a bit further than that. So the people who come here, both to live and to visit, tend to be a very interesting set of folks. So when I am asked why have a B&B in Sandspit, the smallest town in Haida Gwaii, the only town on Moresby Island (although we do have the airport and the marina), I say that it is all about the people—well, that and the fact that I think this is the most beautiful place on earth. It is no day trip—they are coming for the adventure, and they are coming to the edge of the world for it. They all have stories—stories from home, stories from here. And I have stories, too, and we share our stories. So I am going to share stories, and probably a recipe or two, with you here.

 Sandspit is small, and mostly along one road which goes along Shingle Bay, although it is a couple of blocks deep most places, and a long road goes south, turning into a logging road that curves down and back up. There’s the airport on the east corner the marina around the curve on the west corner, and Bayview Garden B&B just about in the middle. There’s a grocery store, three restaurants, a golf course, a marine supply and repair outfit, and Moresby Explorers, which offers trips into Gwaii Haanas, the huge national park that is only accessible by boat or seaplane. Why, Sandspit is the Gateway to Gwaii Haanas. And all with about 400 or so people living here. And plenty of dogs and cats.

 So Cody, because he is The Dog Who Goes, and I went to the SuperValu, the grocery store, liquor store, and social center of Sandspit. And, of course, Lamont Cranston, The Cat Who Stalks Like a Panther, stayed at the house, because, well, he’s in charge. And it’s a cool fall day, shining bright outside, but with a nip in the air, like cinnamon in hot chocolate. So there is a fire in the stove, keeping the house cozy.

 The SuperValu is a great little store. A few years ago, they started listening to what people want, and now they have small quantities of a large number of interesting foods. And they try hard to keep the vegetables fresh, although that is a challenge here, since all of the supplies get here by ferry. When there is a storm, and the ferry doesn’t run, we all go to the store and buy milk and eggs and hope that the ferry will be able to cross soon. The main reason to go to the store is to see who’s there, and exchange a few words, get the latest gossip, maybe a joke, maybe just talk about the weather. And on this day, it was just like that, along with getting the Creamo and eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast.

And when we came back from the store, Cody ran into the house, and I heard him whimper. As I came around the corner into the living room, he was gazing worriedly down at the cat, who was comfortably curled up in the middle of, yes, The Dog Bed. Not that the cat doesn’t see it as The Cat Bed. But then, the whole house, is, as far as the cat is concerned, The Cat House. Of course.

 Another day, Sunday morning. It’s the end of September. There’s a fire crackling away in the store. The fishermen are fishing, probably up to their waists in the river, looking at those coho racing past them, watching those fish mostly ignore their special lures. Those salmon—right now all they have on their minds is one thing—spawning. That’s sex to you. The only time you catch one is if a lure gets in their way and they snap at it out of irritation. Moral of this story is if you’re hell bent on sex, do try not to get so irritated that it ruins your day.

 The lovely couple from Ottawa slept in, listening, as I was early this morning, to the storm rage overnight. Wind howling, rain pounding on the roof, all warm and toasty under the covers, just listening. The fishermen were slow to get started, thinking they were in for it. But the wind blew and then blew itself away, and took the storm with it. All that’s left is a little irritated ruffling in the air, making the tree branches cha-cha a little. Nothing athletic. You could even be out in the bay, fishing today. Which, I assure you, is certainly happening for a lot of guys, because we are in the middle of The Sandspit Coho Derby. After all of the mighty trophy hunting fisherman from Somewhere Else have spent their wad on catching our fish, the Coho derby is our turn to get competitive. I guess it keeps the community together, that competition. Something to talk about when you do get together.

 “Oh, yeah—too bad you didn’t catch that 21 pound coho. Yessir, that was a fighter, and a testament to my skill.” “Well, what about last year, when you were skunked? What was that a testament to?”

 Anyway, it goes something like that. Something you save for those short days in the winter, with the long sunrises, and the long sunsets.

 I make a lot of breakfasts, and people seem to enjoy the food and sitting around the kitchen table, because that’s story time. Sometimes I make pancakes, and people like them, so they asked me for a recipe. Since I kind of put it together by feel, it made me scratch my head a little, but I did come up with something, and here it is.

 Gluten Free Oatmeal Pancakes–Zen Directions

Soak old fashioned oatmeal in yogurt with milk (goat milk is nice if you have it) or buttermilk, and some quinoa flakes, too, just for fun. How much? Well,more liquid than oats, a lot more oats than quinoa. Add an egg (one is enough if you’re just making it for two), and a bit of honey and a taste of molasses for giggles. Let it all sit for 10 minutes or so, while you heat up your griddle.

 Add some millet flour (not too much), and then Bob’s Red Mill GF pancake mix. As much as or less than however many oats you put in. I usually put less. Add a bit of baking powder to plump it up. If it’s not the right consistency, add more liquid, or more pancake mix. It’s really hard to screw up pancakes, ya know.

 Taste the first pancake. If the flavor is not quite what you want, change something. Just like life.