Between fuel rationing, road closures and an overabundance of caution regarding snowy roads, I have largely been bumming around the same few spots in Campbell River for the last month. Immediately prior to the catastrophic flooding in mid November I had done a run south island and spent some time in Chemainus as well as done the Pacific Marine loop, checking out Fairy Creek with an old pal and poking around Port Renfrew and some spots on the west coast I had never been. I am thankful for friends who push me out of my comfort zone- although I have traversed some sketchy logging roads when pressed to for work, I am actually quite a nervous driver. I have come a long way from staying up all night catastrophizing about driving on the DVP the next day, but I probably wouldn’t have done that particular road solo and appreciate the push. I boogied back north to CR to deal with some paperwork and narrowly missed the Malahat closure as well as the Nanaimo sinkhole.
As a person who is actually kind of stoked for societal collapse I like to think I am smart in the face of natural disasters. I filled my fuel and water tanks, propane, bought extra pet food and a sack of rice and parked myself at the marina. Unfortunately some people have been abusing the 48 hour free parking and staying there in their RVs for months on end. I had just finished a laundry run when I saw bylaw pull in, and had enough time to throw everything in the sink and peel out of the parking lot while they took down the offenders license plate numbers and banished them. I have a conversation about this later with my sometimes neighbor Brian, a really nice man who boondocks fulltime in his RV. We find each other at Quinsam Campground at Elk Falls Provincial Park just outside of town.
So for a month, I do (did! I am trying to break this weird present tense habit) did the familiar circuit around CR. Oyster Bay, marina, Quinsam, fisherman’s wharf, the spit. There is a new campground at the reservoir I want to check out but a 20cm dumping of snow has made a bit of a mess of things and I do not own tire chains.
Knocks at the bus door are not often a welcome thing. At Little Bear Bay all whacked out on shrooms it was Paul, also all shroomy, trying to lure me into a threesome with him and his wife. Maybe it was just a regular ol’ hookup he was after, I honestly don’t recall, but that incident was the impetus for the current alcohol moratorium. I am tired of kicking men out of my space. Out at Quinsam, night time, no lights on, another knock. Who the hell? It is a campground neighbor introducing himself, and I can smell the booze wafting off his breath as we stand in the dark, my ax clutched surreptitiously in hand.
The next day I left the bus idling while I went into the grocery to fill up my water jugs. It has been a while since I had starter problems but they were so persistent and the stakes so high, with short camp moves and remote camps, that I feel almost superstitious about firing her up more times than necessary. That, and in the dark, short days of a west coast winter, I must augment my solar power with charging batteries off the alternator while Althea is running. If anyone knows how to even get this tricky bitch in drive, they are welcome to have her. Not really, though, this bus is actually the sum total of my worldly goods.
On return I struck up a conversation with a gentleman cyclist who moved to the island after visiting his daughter eighteen years ago and falling in love. He was super interested in the bus and the lifestyle and the freedom.
“Oh, shit,” I thought. “I AM free. That’s the point.”
I still had 3/4 of a tank of diesel, full water, propane, etc and decided on an impromptu trip. I had seen oysters near Baynes Sound and wanted to go harvest some and god damnit, why shouldn’t I. Where I had seen the oyster bed was awfully close to the Denman ferry and one thing sort of led to another and with no concious decision making I found myself the only camper in residence at the very small, quiet and beautiful Fillongley Provincial Park.
My time here has largely consisted of walking with Jude. Hornby looms nearby and across the strait the mainland mountains are an impressive range of white peaks, when the fog and clouds reveal them. The days are still those bleak, grey winter days but the rain has tapered off considerably. Sometimes, a rogue bit of sunlight will burst through the clouds and illuminate the day with absolute glory. We walk down to the estuary with the wind cold in our faces, Jude’s shoulders hunched against the cold and his ears folded back in a way that projects his displeasure. Across the water, one of those rogue sunbursts is lighting up a patch of forest like a summer day. The clouds there have turned into biblical, illuminated Michaelangelo clouds. I hope someone is walking there, and has found themselves unexpectedly in their own brief burst of gold, glory and hope.
Denman Island views December 13th 2021
