One day, the week-before-last, I ate breakfast and loaded the car, then drove north-west as far as I could. I finally turned on to gravel three hours north of the ferry dock. I rolled in on the logging roads in light rain, getting tired, and saw a “Grizzly Spotted in Area” flyer on a tree at the head of a well-known estuary. Johnstone Straight is under 2 miles wide near here and on the other shore, the mainland side, a person (or a bear) could walk to the end of Knight Inlet, where the Klinaklini runs between Silverthrone and Waddington, and the ice is 700’ deep not too far above tidewater. On the mainland side it looks like the Himalaya. I crashed diagonally in the back of the Subaru. A long day on the road from Portland will still get pretty close to some wild country. They were still building the highway near here when my father first took me up to Vancouver Island.
He would have had a quiet birthday this week, but in the 1970’s my father was a divorced dad, a wandering catholic, and a highball contractor. He woke up early. He drove the pass to watch youth basketball — and he let each of us pick out a summer trip. One year I picked Campbell River (probably because I saw it in SalmonTroutSteelheader, which I read instead of comic books.) Dad had fished about 2 hours in his life to that point, but he got us on a half-day charter, then rented a tin boat and trolled around in front of town for a few days. We got herring at the bait dock and tried to plug cut it, twisted up huge snarls, and cut dogfish loose. Somehow we managed to catch a coho for the cooler, which was glorious. We went back a few years, and stayed at the old Painters Lodge before it burned. The guides surfed Whalers through the rip at Seymour Narrows. Lots of great memories. I wish I could thank him now.
But I’ve only gone back to the north of the Island one other time. Not sure why; its amazing country. Its worthy of steelhead and cohos, and not just pinks. I saw black bears most days, and loved watching a sea otter in the kelp. I heard wolves close by when the big moon came up at Cluxewe.
Nothing makes me less confident than saltwater of any kind, where I immediately understand $1000 rods but also doubt they’d fix the real problems. (What will ever fix the real problems?) I stumbled around and rambled around, not following the plan, sleeping in the car, eating ramen, scouting. I found cool places but burned up too much energy in a rocky creek mouth with heavy tides and too many seals. At a key point the Canadians took pity on me. Its still ok to be a big dumb American with a shit-eating grin — somehow — although it might help even more now to be genuinely grateful. I have to assume they were undercover agents of the Wolf Clan, and master hunters. So I got dialed in, with the help, and was able put a bright fish in the cooler, out of the skinny water. It was glorious.
I can’t share the secret parts, because they aren’t mine, but I will say there was an unprompted review of 6lb Maxima, out on the beach, with some reservations expressed. I said “I’m using 10lb Maxima.” The Wolf said “Well then, you’ll be at a disadvantage.” The Wolf stays for a month every year and fishes a 13’ Winston. You’ll spot him right away. He considers it a world-class fishery, and is convincing, although the numbers this year might be unusual. Equinox sounds about prime on a dry year, or maybe a little late. Tons of camping. Good cheeseburgers in town.
I left from Victoria, and walked around waiting for the Blackball. It’s like a whole different country! The women are pretty and the tourist halibut, priced in exotic currency, is delicious. Grand buildings are rising. I kept walking past barber shops, with old guys in the windows waiting for the day's last customer. I was too shy to go in but I know they saw me. It feels vaguely like Kerouac and Gary Snyder are going to come walking around a corner, back in town and wearing wool. The People will name this whole place after a great new poet-hero someday, and put bronze statues by the water -- near the gray cedar totems -- facing north.
In the Land of the War Canoes, Curtis.
Toward ‘Unclimable Waddington’
Quatsino tidelands
Rain
Blackball
He would have had a quiet birthday this week, but in the 1970’s my father was a divorced dad, a wandering catholic, and a highball contractor. He woke up early. He drove the pass to watch youth basketball — and he let each of us pick out a summer trip. One year I picked Campbell River (probably because I saw it in SalmonTroutSteelheader, which I read instead of comic books.) Dad had fished about 2 hours in his life to that point, but he got us on a half-day charter, then rented a tin boat and trolled around in front of town for a few days. We got herring at the bait dock and tried to plug cut it, twisted up huge snarls, and cut dogfish loose. Somehow we managed to catch a coho for the cooler, which was glorious. We went back a few years, and stayed at the old Painters Lodge before it burned. The guides surfed Whalers through the rip at Seymour Narrows. Lots of great memories. I wish I could thank him now.
But I’ve only gone back to the north of the Island one other time. Not sure why; its amazing country. Its worthy of steelhead and cohos, and not just pinks. I saw black bears most days, and loved watching a sea otter in the kelp. I heard wolves close by when the big moon came up at Cluxewe.
Nothing makes me less confident than saltwater of any kind, where I immediately understand $1000 rods but also doubt they’d fix the real problems. (What will ever fix the real problems?) I stumbled around and rambled around, not following the plan, sleeping in the car, eating ramen, scouting. I found cool places but burned up too much energy in a rocky creek mouth with heavy tides and too many seals. At a key point the Canadians took pity on me. Its still ok to be a big dumb American with a shit-eating grin — somehow — although it might help even more now to be genuinely grateful. I have to assume they were undercover agents of the Wolf Clan, and master hunters. So I got dialed in, with the help, and was able put a bright fish in the cooler, out of the skinny water. It was glorious.
I can’t share the secret parts, because they aren’t mine, but I will say there was an unprompted review of 6lb Maxima, out on the beach, with some reservations expressed. I said “I’m using 10lb Maxima.” The Wolf said “Well then, you’ll be at a disadvantage.” The Wolf stays for a month every year and fishes a 13’ Winston. You’ll spot him right away. He considers it a world-class fishery, and is convincing, although the numbers this year might be unusual. Equinox sounds about prime on a dry year, or maybe a little late. Tons of camping. Good cheeseburgers in town.
I left from Victoria, and walked around waiting for the Blackball. It’s like a whole different country! The women are pretty and the tourist halibut, priced in exotic currency, is delicious. Grand buildings are rising. I kept walking past barber shops, with old guys in the windows waiting for the day's last customer. I was too shy to go in but I know they saw me. It feels vaguely like Kerouac and Gary Snyder are going to come walking around a corner, back in town and wearing wool. The People will name this whole place after a great new poet-hero someday, and put bronze statues by the water -- near the gray cedar totems -- facing north.
In the Land of the War Canoes, Curtis.
Toward ‘Unclimable Waddington’
Quatsino tidelands
Rain
Blackball
