“Ah,” Mike says. “There she is. Number two. You must be Katrina. All set to take to the skies?”
“Thrilled,” Sabrina says in a monotone voice. “And FYI? It’s Sabrina.”
“Hey!” Aunt Maddie says, “Be nice, Sabrina.”
“Figures you’d be on my mother’s side,” Sabrina says. “Why did you have to take her call last night, anyway?”
Mike raises an eyebrow at my aunt, and then frowns at Sabrina’s high-heeled boots. I’m wearing my Cowichan sweater and a woollen toque, but Sabrina looks like she’s dressed for one of her marathon shopping trips to the mall. And while fashionable, she doesn’t exactly look ready to take on the wild beaches of Pacific Rim National Park Reserve.
“Okay,” Mike says, clapping his hands together, “we’ve got some pretty good weather in front of us. Let’s get this show on the road. You two are in for a treat. Visibility should be half-decent today. That’s a rare thing on the West Coast in March.”
“Joy and rapture,” Sabrina mutters, booting her luggage toward him. “Can’t wait.”
Mike catches hold of the handle of her suitcase before it tips over. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that wasn’t there before, and I feel bad for him. He’s pretty stoked on his float plane—a classic de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver—and the fact that he’s volunteered to drop us off in Tofino on his own nickel is pretty awesome. I glare at Sabrina, but she just checks out her reflection in the window of the plane, completely oblivious. What else is new?
I can’t figure it out. Why would Sabrina Webber want to give up her spring break to work with the Coast-is-Clear program on Vancouver Island’s wild West Coast? Cleaning the beaches of tsunami debris from the 2011 Japanese earthquake doesn’t sound like her thing at all. Sabrina is allergic to the outdoors. Nature is a dirty word to her. It just doesn’t make any sense. All of a sudden, the project I’ve been stoked about for weeks has lost a big chunk of its appeal. I want to text my boyfriend, Max, but he’s already airborne, Mexico-bound with his family for most of spring break. I don’t want to ruin his stoke, and anyway, he hasn’t answered my last text yet—the one about our probable move to Victoria.
Sabrina points at the second-hand hiking boots hanging from my backpack and wrinkles her nose. “Where’d you get those?”
I ignore her. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Sabrina, it’s never to bite. She lives for the bite. Instead, I carry my backpack over to where Mike is loading stuff into the plane, and turn to hug Aunt Maddie goodbye. She takes hold of my shoulders and stares me square in the eye. “Now, don’t stay in a snit, okay? I know cell service is sketchy up there, and I get that you’re frustrated with your dad right now, but please check in as much as you can, okay?”
“I will,” I tell her. “But you know Dad never checks his messages.” This is absolutely true. He brags about his iPhone but he’s hopeless with all forms of technology. Besides, he’s still at a writers’ convention in Ontario, so he probably won’t even remember that I’m headed to Long Beach for spring break. His brain is like that.
“No excuses,” Aunt Maddie says. “But have a great time, kiddo. The change of scene will do you good, and you’re doing an awesome thing.”
Sabrina smirks and leans against a dock piling. I wonder if anyone is coming down to see her off, but when I scan the marina, all I see are two men scraping barnacles off the hull of a sailboat several metres away and a couple of seagulls investigating a garbage can. They hop around a crumpled paper bag on the ground, looking for food scraps, and I’m reminded of Jack, my raven buddy. He didn’t show up at breakfast today, which was weird. He rarely skips a morning visit. I wonder if he’ll even notice that I’m gone? Then I give my head a shake, because as much as I adore him, he should probably get out there and make some other friends, too some feathered ones, I mean.
“Okay, guys,” Mike calls, opening the door of the float plane. “Here comes Peter. Time to board.”
Peter, it turns out, is the Coast-is-Clear program facilitator, and along with Jade, a University of Victoria student, will be running the show once we get to the lodge near Tofino where we’ll be staying.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” Peter says with a smile. “Had to go back for this.” He knocks his hand against the guitar case slung over his shoulder. “I’m not very good, but I like to bring it with me wherever I go.” He’s tall and lean, and his dark hair is tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck with a leather string. I figure he must be pretty old, maybe around twenty-six.
There is a flurry of hugs and well wishes, and Mike plants a kiss on my aunt’s cheek. “Text you later,” he says shyly. Aunt Maddie grins from ear to ear.
Once we get inside the Beaver, there isn’t much room, and both Sabrina and I sit by a window, the narrow passageway between us. I stare straight ahead, trying to figure this whole thing out, but she stiffens in her seat and says, “Just so you know, none of this was my idea, okay?”
“Okay,” I say calmly. I’m used to her angry outbursts, so this one is no big surprise. She puts her ear buds in—a clear indication that she is in no mood for further conversation. Fine by me.
Ten minutes later, the float plane’s engine starts up and we taxi out of the bay on big white pontoons. I stop thinking about Sabrina and start thinking about airplanes.
I peer out the window and see Riley, accompanied by Ben North, another family friend and Cow Bay original, standing on the deck of the Tzinquaw, waving like mad as we taxi past. I smile. The older those two guys get, the more they seem to like hanging out together. I think they enjoy lying to each other about their glory days at sea. I wave back energetically and give them both the thumbs-up, catching a glimpse of Sadie, Ben’s African grey parrot, in the cabin window. She’s probably chilling out in the sink—her favourite place to be when she visits the Tzinquaw—and for a moment I wish I were spending my break in Cowichan Bay with all my favourite people. More than ever now, if what my aunt said about Dad and Anne finding a place in Victoria is true. If it is, then my days in Cowichan Bay are numbered.
When the float plane lifts off the water, I sneak a peek over at Sabrina. She’s staring out the window at the water and swipes the back of her hand angrily across her face. But not before I see a tear slide down her cheek.
Chapter Two
I’ve never been inside a plane like this before, and while my aunt has assured me that Mike is an experienced pilot, I still feel uneasy when the Beaver starts to pitch and tremble just fifteen minutes into our flight.
“No need to worry,” Mike yells over the noise of the engine. “Just a little turbulence … piece of cake! We’ll be out of it in a minute or two!”
“You get used to it,” Peter shouts from beside Mike. “Been in planes like this my whole life! Beavers are the workhorses of the West Coast! Nothing to get nervous about!”
Easy for them to say! The plane shudders and dips, then hovers for a minute before shaking as though its wings are going to break clean off.
“Scared?” Sabrina asks me suddenly, with narrowed eyes.
“What? No!” But it’s a total lie. I look out my window at the huge expanse of green directly underneath us and think about how awful it would be to crash into the Seymour Range that Mike tells us we are currently flying over. From seven thousand feet in the air, all I see is a random cluster of tiny islands, coves, peaks and bays near the coastline, and rock, trees and lakes everywhere else. If we crash, it’s lights out for sure. I shut my eyes briefly, telling myself to calm down. There’s no sense worrying about stuff that hasn’t happened. I’m headed to Pacific Rim to clean up the shoreline. That should be what I’m thinking about, not the very remote possibility of our plane nose-diving into the side of a mountain.
I look down at the dark blue ocean, remembering the continuous news footage that played after the Japanese earthquake in Honshu—the unbelievable destruction that was unleashed when the tsunami rushed in. Dad and I watched the TV from the comfort of our living room, hard
ly able to comprehend the chaos we were seeing. The water just kept on coming, taking everything in its path. I can only imagine the terror that everyone must have felt, the shock and the disbelief. Some of the Japanese people watched from the rooftops of buildings, watched as their homes—their whole lives—literally got swept away. Now those people had reason to worry. Me? I’m in a bulletproof little plane with an experienced pilot. Clearly, I am a giant wuss.
Mike and Peter start talking to each other, but I can’t hear them over the roar of the engine. Sabrina just stares at her nails, oblivious to the turbulence and noise, but her eyes are red and puffy. Our eyes meet across the aisle, and she frowns at me. “Why don’t you take a picture? Seeing as you prefer looking at me over the view outside your window.”
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that … well, are you okay?”
“Like you care.”
And here’s the funny thing, even though Sabrina is totally a piece of work, I can’t help feeling a little sorry for her. I’m not completely without a heart. Last year her uncle was arrested for being part of a drug and poaching operation, and her parents have always seemed more interested in their luxury cars and trips overseas than they are in her. So despite her good jeans and good genes, it can’t be easy being Sabrina Webber.
The engine noise evens out a little, and I shift in my seat. “Look. I know that being part of the Coast-is-Clear program doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d want to do.”
“Gee,” Sabrina says sarcastically. “You think?” She picks at a fingernail. “I’d rather chew glass.”
“So, how come you’re here, then?”
“It’s mandatory. Because I got caught.”
I’m confused. “Caught?”
“You mean you haven’t heard yet?” Sabrina snorts. “I thought the whole of Cowichan Bay knew.”
“Knew what?” I ask.
“That I got busted for shoplifting in the village. I stole a ring from that store next to the Gang Plank.”
“Earth and Sky?”
“Yeah. They’re total granola freaks. Stupid thing is, I don’t even like that store: all those wind chimes and Save-the-Whale T-shirts and stuff. Anyway, the owners said they wouldn’t press charges if I did some kind of lame community service. And because they’re eco-freaks, they wanted me to do something to ‘aid the planet.’ So, here I am.”
“So it was go to Long Beach or go to juvenile court?” I ask.
“Something like that,” Sabrina says angrily, tears threatening again. “Plus, my parents are away for spring break so they were only too happy to pack me off for the duration.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, don’t kid yourself,” Sabrina says. “There is no ‘ouch.’ I gave up on ‘ouch’ a long time ago.”
“So, why’d you do it?” I ask. The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think.
“What?”
“You know, steal the ring when you don’t even like the stuff they sell?”
But Sabrina just shrugs.
Mike turns around in the pilot’s seat and motions for us to lean toward him. “Hey, guys!” he shouts. “Look down there to the left! Now that’s something you don’t get to see everyday.”
I peer out my window. We’re not nearly as high as we were a little while ago.
“Down there,” Peter shouts. “On the beach!”
I squint, and sure enough, a dark shape is ambling slowly along the rocky shoreline, followed closely by two smaller ones.
“Bears!”
“A big mama!” Peter shouts.
“Hang on,” Mike yells. “I’m going to circle back so Katrina can get a look.”
Sabrina is clearly unimpressed with Mike, not to mention the bruins down below. “It’s Sabrina!” she shouts back. “And there had better not be any bears where we’re going!”
“Nothing to worry about.” Peter yells.
“Good!”
“They mostly leave you alone, unless of course your lunch is better than theirs.”
“WHAT?” Sabrina sits up straighter and glares at Peter. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.” He laughs louder now, his eyes sparkling. “Which is why we’re super OCD about garbage in the parks. Bears have good noses. They can smell a sandwich from a couple klicks away. Literally.”
“Lighten up!” Mike yells over his shoulder. “Look at it out there! Look where we live! It’s beautiful!”
“Everything is green,” Sabrina says, but only loud enough for me to hear. “I look terrible in green.”
Chapter Three
After making a couple of wide circles over the sea, the Beaver comes to land in the harbour at Tofino. When the pontoons hit the water, the plane skids and lurches a little before Mike steers it toward the docks.
Max would totally love this. If he were here right now, he’d be talking non-stop to Mike, asking him all sorts of flight-related questions. I’m surprised by how much I miss him. I sure wish he were here, instead of being on a 737, bound for warmer skies.
The harbour is a pretty busy place. It’s filled with fishing boats, a few tugs and a smattering of sailboats and pleasure crafts. We taxi up to a dock where a man is standing and waving to us. When we are about ten feet away, Mike cuts the throttle. The sudden absence of noise is strange, and my ears ring a little.
Mike jumps out the door of the plane and onto one of the pontoons. He grabs a rope and hops to the dock, placing a hand against the side of his plane. He makes it look so easy, like he’s done it a thousand times (which he probably has) and jokes around with the other man while he works.
Even though the trip was only about forty-five minutes long, my legs feel a little like overcooked pasta; kind of wobbly. When Sabrina steps off the pontoon, the heel of her boot gets stuck between the planks of the dock, and she falls awkwardly on her knees beside me.
“Whoops! Okay?” Peter asks, extending a hand.
“Stupid dock!” she hisses.
More like stupid boots, you mean.
We say goodbye to Mike, who heads over to order some breakfast at a nearby cafe before continuing his trip up to Bella Bella. We walk with Peter to a nearby gas station where an old blue Chevy truck is parked. There’s a sticker on the back window that says, “Haida Gwaii Rocks. Literally. (7.7 magnitude. Oct 2012)”.
“She’s old,” Peter says, patting the door before he opens it. “1988. We’re the same age, but she’s a lot tougher than I am.”
Sabrina climbs into the crew cab and lays claim to the whole seat with all her stuff. I sit up front next to Peter.
The secondary roads we travel on are full of potholes from the winter rains, and Peter drives pretty slowly, probably not more than thirty kilometres an hour.
“Sorry for the bumps, guys,” he says. “Roads are bad this time of year, but only twenty minutes or so till we get where we’re going.”
The lodge we’ll be staying at for the next ten days is called the Artful Elephant. It sure seems like a strange name for a place in the middle of Pacific Rim National Park Reserve. Peter tells us it’s a ninety-year-old rooming house that’s named after painter Emily Carr’s quirky travel caravan—the one she called “Elephant.” He also tells us you can get your tea leaves read from Ruth, the woman who runs the place.
We pull off onto a narrow muddy road that ends right at the stretch of beach where we will be working.
“Here we are,” Peter says, cutting the engine. I stare at the Artful Elephant; a big white ramshackle house set back from the road, well settled in the overgrown grass as though it’s part of the landscape. It has a glassed-in front porch, a big stone chimney running up the side of the house and an imposing set of red stairs leading to the porch. Giant ceramic pots filled with early spring snowdrops sit on most of the steps, while a multitude of tinkly wind chimes hang along the front of the house.
Peter and I climb out of the truck, and, dodging mud puddles, drag our stuff up the pathway toward the lodge. When I notice a cracked
and tilting birdbath in the middle of the grass, I drop my backpack. Perched on the side of it, is a big black raven—one I’d recognize anywhere!
My smile is huge. “Buddy!” Jack hops along the edge of the concrete bowl and flaps his wings twice, his standard “hello” greeting.
I can’t believe he’s here! It must have taken him all day. He must have left at dawn. How did he know I was coming up here? But it’s pointless to try and figure Jack out. I gave up trying a long time ago, because, well, Jack is not your average raven. I am so happy to see him that I almost cry.
Sabrina, still in the truck, sticks her head out the back window and gives me a dramatic eye roll. “Seriously? Your weird bird friend is here? Lame.”
I ignore her, and smooth my hand over Jack’s shiny blue-black feathers.
“Whoa,” Peter says, coming up beside me. “This is very cool. You going to fill me in, Hannah?”
“This is Jack,” I explain.
“Beautiful bird.” Peter takes a step closer. “Is he a friend of yours or something?”
“Yeah. I’ve known him almost three years, since I was twelve.”
When a big dog trots over from the house, Jack makes for a nearby cedar tree. He’s not really afraid of dogs but usually adopts a better-safe-than-sorry attitude around them. This is probably because of Nell’s dog, Quincy, back in Cowichan Bay. Quincy likes to full-on lick Jack whenever he gets the chance.
“Hey, Norman,” Peter says, scratching the dog between the ears. Norman looks like a German shepherd, only he’s jet black, with huge, oversized sticky-up ears like giant nacho chips. His nose is pinkish, and his eyes are large and sweet. He comes over to me and leans against my leg, the same way Quincy does. As luck would have it, there is a broken milk bone dog biscuit in the pocket of my jeans. Nothing new about that; I usually pack dog treats wherever I go. Norman takes it willingly and immediately sniffs around for more.
“Sorry, buddy,” I tell him. “That was the last one.”
Hannah and the Wild Woods Page 2
