Better Late Than Never
I pulled onto the gravel road leading to the house on the little
cove, top down on my shiny cherry red convertible, clouds of dust trailing
behind, on a balmy 4th of July night. The farm kids who are growing
up on this lovely inlet near Shelton, WA were waiting impatiently by the
campfire. They had been told by their parents to wait for my arrival
to set off the last of the professional quality fireworks, purchased on
the local Res (reservation) at a place called Ill Eagle (illegal) fireworks.
I'd already seen lots of skyfire emanating from the hillsides on my ride
there from the Seattle airport, but there's something about seeing the
joy and amazement on kids' faces that I never seem to tire of. The
youngsters would soon go off to bed, and I'd have a chance to socialize
with good friends Kathy and Dan and their relatives/friends.
Settling in late that evening, I reflected on the long day of travel; missing a flight in Chicago, waiting for 45 minutes to pick up a pre-paid rental car, etc. The rental car part should have been a snap. I'd gone through all the crap to arrange transportation weeks before. I had called each company and received estimates of $650 to $1100 for three week's use of a sub- compact car. $1100? Heck, I could BUY a car for that amount. So no deal. I went to the computer and called up Priceline.com (I guess Wm. Shatner's voice must have a Loreli or Siren- like effect). I submitted a bid and received a positive response for $450 dollars AND they upgraded me one class to an economy car. How infuriating is that?...Waiting on hold for ½ an hour to talk with each of the companies directly, only to find out that it can be done more quickly, easily, and cheaply online. Then I get to the Seattle airport, and after an interminable wait ask, out of curiosity, how much more per day it would cost to drive a convertible. The response: "$14". Let's see, 14 times 21 days equals $294. No thanks. "How about $10 a day?" asks the counter clerk. No thanks. "Eight dollars a day?" I start to get the idea that anything is negotiable. I bargain him down to $2 per day and exit the parking garage in a fire red Mustang rag top. Damn, I look good! "Hey ladies! Need a ride?"
A Whale of a Time
Over breakfast on the porch overlooking the inlet, we joked about how
last time I had visited, a gray whale had come up into their cove...a happening
that had never occurred before. About an hour after that conversation,
what happens? You guessed it. A gray whale comes up the inlet.
We jump into the canoe and follow it about, taking pictures whenever it
comes up to spout. I'm dubbed a "whale magnet" (I didn't like that
term during my bar hopping days either).
Thar she blows!
Nirvana
Next day, I headed for the border. A sense of antici.................................................
pation was in the air. I LOVE British Columbia. It is,
without a doubt, filled with the most spectacular scenery I have ever laid
eyes upon. And the best part about it is the "civilized wilderness"
aspect. You wake up in the morning, venture a few miles off the main
road into incredible wildness, and then return that night to a jacuzzi
and fine meal. Now this is definitely the way to encounter the out-of-doors!
First stop: Vancouver Island, stopping overnight in the pristine, fairyland-looking
city of Victoria. Then a long drive to Telegraph Cove where I would
meet up with a kayaking guide who was hired to lead me to Orca (aka "Killer
Whale") in the Johnstone Straight.
Despite negative weather forecasts, it turned out to be a beautiful,
warm, sunny day. After seeing foraging black bear, grazing black
tailed dear, a dead fin whale bloated in the sun, enormous orange and purple
starfish, and soaring eagles (thick as pigeons around popcorn-toting old
men in the park) while following the shoreline, we stopped on a rocky beach
for lunch. As we shooed off a black mink and several hummingbirds
(I still can't make out the tune they were humming) (Why do hummingbirds
hum? Because they don't know the words.) who were
checking out our lunches, I bemoaned the fact that we hadn't seen Orca
yet. The guide informed me that Orca didn't venture to this part
of the straight. WHAT!? I had spoken days before with a woman
on the phone who said we had a 90% chance of seeing them at Robson Bight.
The guide told me that Robson Bight, where Orca go in summer to rub their
bellies on the smooth stones in the shallows and feast on salmon, was a
good four hour paddle away. Needless to say, I was a bit upset.
Here I was after two days of difficult travel, seeking to fulfill a life-long
dream, and this guy is telling me that we haven't got a snowball's chance
in heck of seeing the black-and-white behemoths. The look on my face
clearly indicated to the guide that his anticipated big tip was in jeopardy.
Jokingly, as we re-entered our kayaks, I played my face into the crystal
clear bay and uttered an "Orca call". I kid you not... minutes later
I would spot a spout perhaps a mile away. I tell the guide that I
want to paddle across the channel. No need. Another spout emerges
about 300 yards away, then 250...we paddle like Eskimos possessed to intersect
it's path. Gee, maybe I am a "whale magnet".
HOLY SH-----!!!!! What a sight. About 30 yards
in front of us emerges the tip of a dorsal fin, slicing slowly upward through
the water until the full 6 to 8 foot fin is exposed, a spout blows, and
the fin slowly submerges. It's a rogue bull, out roaming and fishing.
What's that over there? It's a mama Orca with her two young ones,
teaching them to fish. Whatever she did, they did. I reached
into the cockpit of my kayak to retrieve the video camera. As I was
removing it from the plastic bag, I heard what sounded like a shot.
"My Gawd! Someone is shooting at the Orca!!!" Were Japanese
whaling ships in the vicinity? My ecological ire rose up, steeling
me to make a direct run at the offender (similar to the way Green Peace
boats dart into the paths of ships intent on clubbing baby seals).
Oops...never mind. It was just mama whale turning on her side and
slapping the surface of the water with her flipper. The sound waves
deafen as they crack through the air. It could be worse though.
We could be nearby salmon who become disoriented by the waterborne shock
waves, ending up as sushi for mama and babies. All told, we would
spend about 45 minutes watching those incredible beasts before heading
in, the guide once again confident of receiving a good tip.
Next day, it's the ferry boat back to the mainland, a quick tour
around Vancouver (perhaps the prettiest city in North America with it's
mountains, bay, and many fountains),
How does he make the water come out of his shoe like that?
and a drive to Whistler Mountain, perhaps the best ski resort in North America. I had sampled it's runs in April when I bolted from the CEC conference in Vancouver to see this mythological place that is just two hours from the city. The variety and quality of runs are unparalleled (Although they could mark the trails better...I ended up on a double black diamond run that resulted in a near-death experience. I was definitely moving toward that white light...). The village below is an alpine Disneyland...immaculate and stylized to resemble an idealized European ski resort. It's wonderful to walk around the car-free cobblestone streets for a couple of days, but then you find yourself overwhelmed by the spic and span glitter, wanting to vandalize it badly before running screaming back to the real world.
This summer's trip would find me renting a mountain bike and taking it uphill on the gondola for wild rides down. I took "a header" more that once before learning to take my butt off the seat and perch it mere millimeters above the back wheel for better balance (I'm not sure how I'll ever get that strange waffle print tire stain off my pants). Next day?...ascending the outside climbing wall like the glue-fingered Spiderman, fearlessly riding the alpine slide (sort of a toboggan ride down a large metal gutter), and flying on the trapeze. YES. TRAPEZE.
At the bottom of Whistler mountain is a trapeze set-up, just like the ones in the circus. For $20 you get three "flights". Always one to confront my fears (under controlled circumstances), I climbed the ladder up to the platform where I would grab the bar and fly through the air. Now you should know that I get white-knuckle, dear-caught-in-the-headlights frightened just climbing the ladder up to clean my garage gutters. This slender, wobbling metal ladder was much, MUCH tAller. I summoned all of my courage (a limited commodity), took it step by step, and upon reaching the thin-aired top, moved laterally onto the platform where support ropes were then attached to my harness. Any falls from here would result in the handlers lowering me gently (in theory) to the abrasive safety of the net far below.
That Daring Young (?) Man.....
I chalked my hands and grabbed the bar that was covered heavily
with adhesive tape. At the handler's call of "hut", I lifted my feet
and swung out over the net. During the first swing cycle I brought
up my legs and draped them over the bar. On the second pendular swing
I let go with my hands before stretching out my aching arms in practice
for the next "flight" when I would actually grasp the arms of the guy on
the other swing, and swing tandem with him. I ended the first "flight"
with a back flip down to the net. GREAT FUN, but now I had to climb
that ladder again. Same initial steps on the second flight...I then
grabbed onto and was grabbed by the fellow on the other swing.
However, I released my legs too late, slowing us down and preventing
a successful airborne turn back to my swing. Well, one more try.
The call of "hut", the leap, the legs, the release, the flight, the grab,
the grab, the grab, the grab...Damn, in my terror I forgot to let go and
twist back to my swinging bar, and had to be lowered to the net in disgrace...my
dreams of running away with the circus shattered.
Don't Kiss Any Rocks While You're Down There
Ever since I first saw it on TV during the 1964 Olympics, I've
wanted to white water kayak. While the daring, skill, and bravery
required are traits I don't possess, lack of talent and character has never
stopped me from doing things. I'd done a quick introduction in Alaska,
but now was my chance to learn some skills and use them on bigger water.
BC has a plethora of great white water rivers. I checked out two
different beginner courses. The school at Whistler teaches the traditional
way of turning one's kayak and righting it if it tips over...brute strength.
Sounded good to me...Heck, I'm a guy. The other school (Sea to Sky
Kayak School in Squamish, ½ way between Whistler and Vancouver)
has a new and emerging method that focuses on balance and finesse: Certainly,
NOT
my style. I would go with this second approach though when told that
the latter style prevents shoulder injuries (in opposition to the old style
that often results in torn rotator cuffs and dislocated joints), and that
95% of kayakers, not 10% (as in the traditional training), learn to roll
their kayaks back up after tipping over. Not liking the idea of surgery
or remaining upside down in a raging river, I signed on with Squamish Kayak
School.
After three days of practice on (and in) the warm confines of a Alice Lake, I ventured forth with my instructor for my first river trip. WOW! The water seems to move a whole lot faster when you're sitting on it. A few practice roll-overs in an eddy and we're off, practicing turning, and (whenever I goof up) Eskimo rolling out of the water. All the way down the river, I had saucer-sized eyes, an open mouth (frequently uttering prayers and curses between gulps of water), and a death-grip on my paddle. I was terribly afraid of what might happen to me. I imagined every possible negative scenario; tidal waves rapidly approaching from behind, bottomless whirlpools that would suck me to my death, voracious river sharks, and other improbable threats. I finally made it down the river, having only failed once that day to right my boat. That time, after 3 unsuccessful attempts to right my kayak, I followed ingrained instructions: "Smack the bottom of your upturned kayak three times to summon the rescue kayak" which then bumps your boat and allows you to grab the front of it to push yourself back up to the surface. I guess I made my needs known...I was given the nickname of "thunderclap" for the intensity of the bangs. Out of breath though before the arrival of the second boat, I "bailed out", ripping off the neoprene cockpit cover, exiting underwater, and floating to the surface. Remembering what the instructor told us ("If you lose your equipment, and it floats away, the people who have to chase it down won't want to paddle with you again."), I grabbed my kayak and rode it downstream to a place where I could get it out, empty it, and scooch back in for the rest of the ride. I don't remember much of that first voyage, but I got through all right and felt exhilarated.
I would take two more trips over the course of the next few days, each time becoming more confident and remembering more of the run after the trip down that clear, cold, spectacular river that flows through some of the most awe inspiring, jaw-dropping scenery (mixing sheer granite cliffs, inviting glens and meadows, moss encased forests, snow-capped mountains, and glistening glaciers) one might ever see. Whelp, time to purchase a kayak and keep up with the sport back east in warmer waters...no glacier fed streams back there.
Deja Vu All Over Again
The last day or so was spent back at Dan and Kathy's in Shelton,
WA. Had a chance to water ski for the first time in about 20 years.
Like riding a bike...you never lose it...wake jumping, etc. That
last evening after dinner on the deck, Dan and I lighted up a couple of
Cuban cigars that I smuggled over the border in the bottom of a tissue
box (Should a law-breaking guy like me really be training teachers to work
with delinquent kids?). We had joked earlier about how the kids in
town should have been notified that the "whale magnet" was returning, and
given time to clean the lens of their cameras. A few puffs into my
celebratory cigar (commemorating my WONDERFUL holiday adventure), we hear
a short, abrupt blowing sound. Holy cow, it's another gray whale.
Whale magnet. Sheesh.
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