Dawn and I wake, all my clothes on, sleeping bag zipped but I’m compelled to get up. Make sure the tide isn’t threatening our camp, leave us safe for a calm breakfast. Freezing, I dig in the car for my phone. It is too early to be up. There is no service out here, passed over by careening satellites. Standing still on the road, lighthouse has become firefly again.
After breakfast we pack up and head back to Skidegate. Can’t remember when the ferry leaves. Road looks different on the way back, shock of memory pulls me over to a waterlogged lane. Ahead is a bridge cobbled of decaying logs, crossing to the other side of lake we passed yesterday. Be careful when you cross, I call to Sarah. There are spots where you can drop through if you aren’t looking. She traipses ahead, triumphant, she has spotted deep brown deer eyes nestled in the swamp grass. My feet follow the greened-over logging road that trails the lake. Peach heads of mushrooms clump by the road.
I remember walking down this road, I call over my shoulder to her, but she has disappeared. Bulrushes stalk the shore. Logging has shorn this side of the lake of understorey, easier to see the paths we followed, backtracking with full pails. Corey leading the way, eager to find money mushrooms, rounded rare pines pickers shot each other over in Terrace camps. Stories of these skirmishes spread at campfires—they’re worth a thousand bucks in Japan, an aphrodisiac. Disbelieving, shocked voices.
Branches frame the road, scenic painting, sun warms the gaps in trees. No breeze ruffling the corners that could lift to some other lurking time, its breath coming in waves, beating the earth. Sarah shows up, says there’s an old mill I need to see, shambling into the lake. Some pickers came here on bikes, I tell her. Pails strapped on the front and back, looked apocalyptic, like the end of the world: we’ll all be on bikes with pails, foraging for food. She frames me in front of the mill, which doesn’t look like anything now, a pile of logs fading from its function. We wander back, share a bag of trail mix, squirrels’ hard acorns thunk beside us. Tchock tchock of watching raven.
Other end of Skidegate Lake, miles start counting down—44, 43, 42. Way back seems shorter. Day of watching the green unfold, eyes following old logging roads, defunct trails has rattled the part that remembers. I swerve sharply again, this time to the right, just past mile 16. Get out and scramble under blowdown blocking the road and I know it. This is the road we lived on, the one that started off bold and then couldn’t make up its mind at a crossroads past a rotting bridge. One road climbed a steep cliff and the other down a ravine. Neither one went very far.
I walked down this road every morning to wake up, breaking the icy puddles with my boots, I call to Sarah as I pick up speed. We dodge more blowdown. It hasn’t been used in awhile. She has caught up with me, flushed, and I reach the small bereft clearing. It used to feel cozy, I tell her. Log bridge that led to other roads has washed out. I used to cross it and sit in the sun where the roads parted ways, felt like I was held by the blowing grass.
I check in the woods for logs and timber that campers may have stowed. When we left, we dragged everything we used to make camp and covered the pile with a few tarps for the next year. Thought we would be back. There is nothing stored that I can see. Maybe the last campers burned everything. Sarah has climbed down to the twisting cold, cold stream. Deep brown from the moss and leaves, it stained dishcloths, tea towels but it washed the sweat off. Hopping from roots to stones, crossing the stream, I find the small clearing where I bathed. It looks just as I left it, I say to Sarah. Surge of joy, I want to mark it. This is the spot where I stood. But I don’t. It is enough to be here again, to have found my way to a place I wasn’t looking for.
It is 2:00 p.m. by the time we get back to Sandspit and we rush to the hotel to check the ferry schedule. There is a three o’clock that we must catch, so Sarah can find a ride on the ferry back to Masset. Probably lots of people heading that way, says the young man at the gift shop. He shakes our hands, says he is Gabriel. Shows us argylite carvings of whales curved on pins, glistening shells for fins. Rows of silver, thunderbirds, frogs with long tongues lick the rims of rings. He has worked here every summer for the last four years and is from Skidegate. Gentle voice, he doodles on paper while he waits for customers.
He gets out a map, the same one that was at SuperValu, but it looks different. We trace our journey with dirty fingers. Gabriel returns with hot coffee from the hotel café.
“This is it, the place where we stayed last night, I think,” Sarah says.
“Where is Mosquito Lake?” I ask, and Gabriel shows us the road we missed.
The lake you passed is Skidegate Lake, he said. That is where the mushroom pickers gather every year, not as many as there used to be. The clearing by the lake is where the buyers’ tents are set up.
“So that was Skidegate. I knew I had been there, but I thought it was Mosquito,” I say, coffee warmth flooding me and some deep release. I could lean on the counter and sleep.
Sarah and Gabriel try to figure out the exact spot we stayed, they have it narrowed down. The lighthouse places us at the northern tip, Gabriel says, close to the open ocean. I don’t know it very well but I’ve been by there.
“You’ve been so helpful,” we say, and thank him before heading back to the car. Sun comes out to bask in for a few minutes before we have to go.
Dene
Chinlac chief Khadintel was a respected man who had two wives and told stories of his ancestors to his many children. Strong warrior, brave, a graceful dancer. He had killed an equally respected warrior from the Chilcotin clan some time back. Chinlac villagers heard rumours of revenge, of marauders who would come to the village. They talked about it with fear, like a coming storm. What would they do when the avengers arrived? They prepared, made bows and arrows and armour, waves of the choppy lake slapped the bottoms of their repaired canoes. They prayed and waited, hoping that the reprisal would not come. And then one day the marauders came, a large group of Chilcotin warriors paddling in from the south, armed and ready in sturdy canoes.
Return to Mosquito Lake
Years later I am in muggy Toronto, drinking wine in Sarah’s kitchen on a street of red brick houses. Dragging my rolling suitcase from the subway in the dark, every house looks the same, I tell her. I had to stop to peer at the numbers to make out the right place. Spring is so early I can wear light dresses, sit on patios before I head home—not like the north where buds are still hard knots in branches. When she opens the door there are fitted dresses on hangers she can slip into for work. One more year and she needs to article but she may do her master’s, teach instead. I can hear in her voice that she does not want to change, to go out into the world firm, pressed and suited.
When you left Queen Charlotte after our trip, it was just me and my beach house, she said. Such a cold summer, I had to build a fire every night but I got good at it. Figured out the stove, kept the smoke out. Went deep-sea fishing, just me in the waves and the old men were so kind, let me keep a fish. It kept me full for a week. Mom was supposed to visit before I left in August, but it didn’t happen, so I went to Gwaii Hanaas. She brings out chocolate, bars of it and I choose the dark one. Kitchen is small, glow of Tiffany-style lamp on the round table. Deck in the back is ready for plants to grow.
The bus to Moresby was full of tourists from Germany, Holland, thick accents and smiles, she tells me. I didn’t see the turn-off or the sign but the tour guide announced Mosquito Lake. I jumped out of my seat, ran up to him and said stop the bus. I need to take a picture of Mosquito Lake. He looked at me and the tourists laughed and I gave him my charming smile. He said okay, be quick, so I ran out and took pictures and it looked just like you said. It was stormy that day, couldn’t see the tip of the mountain by the lake, too much fog but I felt something there. I didn’t want to stay.
I learned how to be alone that summer, she tells me. My relationship with the earth kept away gloomy thoughts, sharp eyes pointed at me. It was a hard place to be, there were people around but I didn’t always connect with them. I
was trying to keep warm, stop my clothes from moulding in the damp. I walked the miles of beach on the weekends, in whipping wind, crushed the heads of kelp with my soft boots.
Chinlac
Morning we go in to Chinlac it pours, doesn’t let up till we start at 11:00 a.m. and the muddy road to the trail is flanked by excavators, fallers, trailers for the loggers to fill up on coffee.
Peter in the back seat with his white-haired dog, Phoebe, built the trail in years ago. Fit and sixty-one, still a beaming Boy Scout passionate about beauty the earth shows. He wants to reveal it, clear away tangled brush and muddled minds. Hatchet sticking out of his canvas backpack is for hacking the small stuff; there has been a lot of blowdown in the past few blustery months. Though it is summer, sun has yet to warm the earth and water floats on top of the soggy soil, waiting to sink in. Janice and I are in recovery from a late night with wine at the campfire, when she decided to join me.
“Take two ibuprofen and drink a ton of water before bed and I’ll tap on your window in the morning,” I told her. And it worked, minimal headache, though the scratching of a pack rat skimmed the edge of sleep. Thought it was under the bed, but it was beneath the floor of the cabin, trying to find a way in.
Sign for the provincial parking lot, brown with white carved letters, is pounded to a pine tree. Parking lot is mush. When I pull in, Peter says I should turn the car around; if anything happens we want to be sure we can get out fast. He is matter-of-fact, pointing out survival strategies natural to a forester. He gathers his maps, shows me the squiggly trail. I stare at it blankly, anxious to get going. It’s a two-hour hike under the best of conditions, which we do not have. So he rolls them up, leaves them in the back. Later, I will look at them and wonder what squiggly lines we actually did trace through the bush.
“I forgot my lunch!” he cries out.
“That’s okay. We’ve got bologna sandwiches, some cantaloupe…” says Janice. A lab tech, mother of three, practical, enthusiastic, she is prepared. She even brought foam bug dope you can spread on your face, the back of your hands. Before we start, Peter combs his perfectly cut white hair and pulls on a Norwegian knit toque. He shows us his sensible wool pants, orange rain coveralls, mirrored compass. I am in jeans, rain gear and ankle- length hiking boots; Janice in running shoes, Cleveland Indians ball cap perched on her head. We are completely soaked within the first five minutes, edging around deep mud pools that inhabit the path. Bush is lush, much more than last summer when the dry heat scorched the green to a mottled brown. Looked like disease but it was just thirst.
Dene
Chief Khadintel was not at the village when the Chilcotin arrived on the shores of the lake. He had left early in the morning before the village had woken to inspect snares further up the Nechako River. He liked the stillness of the dawn, the sound of his footsteps soft on the earth. Violent marauders did not wait for him to return; they annihilated the village with vengeance. Hatchets and arrows flying, panicked thud of feet, hands and knees pummelling the earth. Terrified, a few young men ran away to the surrounding forest, in search of their chief. They came across him on the banks of the river and Khadintel could tell by their stricken faces that the Chilcotin had come and he knew they had come for him.
“I am the one they want, you must run back to the forest to save your lives. I alone ought to die.”
Chinlac
Through the thin stands sprouts of new trees cover the earth and a full-throated creek rushes clear and cold. “We used to portage a seventy-pound canoe down this path,” Peter tells us. First part of the trail is a road that meets and then follows the swollen Nechako, leading to a switchback up a ridge to an esker, he tells us.
“Do you know what an esker is?” he calls over his shoulder. Dollar-size leaves flip silver sides in the breeze. Rain cloud hovers; I hope it will hold. I don’t know what an esker is but it is a beautiful word, like a baby Eskimo.
He doesn’t wait for a response. He is spouting knowledge, unstoppable, “An esker is a long, winding ridge of sand and stratified gravel, mainly found in glaciated and formerly glaciated areas of Europe and North America. Eskers are often several kilometres long and have a peculiar uniform shape.”
Phoebe trots ahead, follows scents off the trail but always comes back. She is silent, steady. I am always relieved to have dogs around, a kind of sonar for what lies ahead, though some say they bring back bears. When we reach the Nechako, pink and yellow ribbons are tied to trunks. Pinks are Peter’s and yellows are from a friend with a GPS, I gather from his conversation, mainly with Janice.
“I’ve been doing this for years, ladies, and I know the best way in and out. Not always the fastest. GPS’ll tell you to cut clear through,” he explains but I barely follow through the exertion of trying not to slip in the pools that widen as we walk.
We stop on a ridge and the river, twice its normal size, is languid, braiding ribbons bubbling brown sugar. Across from us is an abandoned ferry dock, white platform still half in the water, half on shore. Ferry brought miners and foresters to work and it cut down on building bridges—not that there ever was one. Grass on the landing is long and leaning from the weight of water. I want to stay longer but the mosquitoes descend in a merciless haze. Janice and I move towards the trail but Peter stands behind us, a half-dozen mosquitoes feasting on his face. He wipes them away in a bloody swipe.
“What are foresters like?” I ask. Peter has been building trails, planning logging roads for years, mainly on his own. “Foresters are individuals. Independent. Bit on the extreme. On both ends, I’d say. We like people. We don’t like people.” He smiles at me, gentle misanthrope. When I asked him to take us, he was reluctant but then he relented. “If it’s important to you, I will take you,” he said, like he needed some time to gather himself, not for the bush, but for us.
Dene
Khadintel could see the canoes of the avenging warriors rounding the curve of the river, slowing at the sight of him, sudden war cries coming from the dark of their open mouths. Terrified, the young men scrambled up the bank but the chief stayed to face his enemy, his feet and body doing a crazy dance, nimbly dodging all the arrows whizzing by. Khalpan, the captain of the war party, stopped the attack. He didn’t want to waste more arrows. What if the Chinlac chief was charmed, watched over by strong spirits?
“Khadintel, you have the reputation of being a man and I see you are a good dancer. You have danced for your life once. If you are a man, dance for me again.”
Chinlac
Submerged trail means we have to bushwhack to get to the steep ridge on our left. And we plough through, Peter leading the way. Undergrowth is light, you can see ahead but it hides slippery trees you can fit your hands around, black from rot but still solid obstacles. We huff up and down, following what becomes a kind of slough beside us, accompanied by a trill that declares I am here.
“What’s that bird?” I ask Janice and Peter at a brief stop. Slough around the esker is rounding a bend and it looks like we’ll have to backtrack to where we started to reach the ridge.
“Don’t know my birds, just the bush,” Peter says. Off the trail we see things. Half-eaten deer announced by smell of decay, ripped in half by a hungry bear. Curve of jaw and hollow eye socket, rounded ribs in one spot, bent legs with bits of hide clinging in another.
“Sounds like a chickadee,” Janice says.
“I read somewhere that chickadees only sing in isolation,” I say. I’ve seen pictures; they are full-breasted, black-capped, aware.
“Something has been sleeping here,” Peter points to a round space crushed by weight.
“Bear sleeping close to the food?” I say. A pause and no one answers. Raw death sleep satiated hunger.
“I’ve lived here for twenty-five years and this is the first time I’ve bushwhacked!” Janice breaks the silence. Sweating, smiling face, rosy cheeked, straight brown bangs plastered to her wide forehead. Wanted to climb Fraser Mountain, but any adventure would do, she told me, throw h
erself unplanned into the thick, see what comes out. Peter is her neighbour, she waves at him when she goes jogging but he doesn’t remember her. All of us have fallen, lurching off slippery wood into prickly bushes, getting back up, wetter, muddier. Forty minutes of backtracking and finally the steep side of the ridge rises like a green wall.
“At least you can see what’s up ahead here. In Haida Gwaii, salal was so massive you didn’t know the direction you were going when you came out,” I say. We have all wanted to turn back at some point, but not at the same time. “My instinct was to head for the ridge, skip all this,” Peter said, surveying the swamp we had slogged around and through. I had wanted to follow the path, so I could come back another time, know my way, but water had forced us to improvise.
Peter showed us his scar, jagged red indent on his right forearm like the sharp curve of the trail we were taking. “Nearly lost my arm, chainsaw skidded off a log and cut to the bone. I was by myself, half-hour from the road.” Though we’re up out of the muck, the ridge isn’t as dry as it looks, I keep slipping. “So I hold my arm up, tie a rag at the elbow. Blood is running down my arm, my side, filling up my boots. I want to lie down, feel light-headed, but I keep moving. Phoebe was with me.”
Dene
To show that he was in control of his emotions, that the fear and pain of death could not overcome him, the chief danced on the beach of the river, but this time a traditional dance of the Carrier people, slow and rhythmic his feet touched the earth and he sang in a cracked voice. He was sure he was going to die and he thought how he was not prepared, that he was a selfish man. The warriors watched and jeered at him, trying to break his spirit, but as he continued to dance it came to him that if he survived, his job was to gather the bones of the dead and heal the earth as best he could.
The Earth Remembers Everything Page 7
