out of control. Dark shapes and shadows began to emerge from the rock faces and conifer patches on the right side of the highway. Worse, the steep valley walls on the left began to crumble and collapse, threatening to crush and bury our bus under piles of rock and debris.
Until then I had never experienced what the hippies referred to as a “bad trip,” but this certainly had to qualify. I remember the panic, the desperation as I attempted to calm myself down. I remember hyperventilating, closing my eyes and burying my face in my jacket, trying not to scream. I’m not sure if I was successful in thwarting those impulses as my next real memory was dragging my gear across the bus station parking lot in Vancouver, some twelve hours later. But that was only a fleeting impression. I have no recollection of boarding my connecting bus, crossing the Strait of Georgia by ferry or making the journey up Vancouver Island. Apparently, I had so thoroughly programmed the entire itinerary into my head that I didn’t skip a beat. Waking up en route, hearing the bus driver call out, “Next stop Campbell River,” was a monumental relief. My dreams up until that point were toxic, plagued with flashes of alien landscapes and baleful faces.
Nearly defeated by the residual effects of a fever and a bad codeine trip, I dragged my heavy gear from the bus depot in Campbell River to a hotel I had booked in advance. Spotting the Quadra Island ferry dock from my hotel window was comforting—it was the vessel I would need to board early the next morning in order to hook up with my crew.
The first leg of my journey was behind me. To celebrate, I turned the TV on to the movie channel, collapsed on the bed and drifted off into a shallow coma. Later that night, I awoke with a start to the sound of roaring engines. For a few crazy moments I had no recollection of where I was, or how I got there. Running to the window and peering out onto the street below, I could see only the vague outline of unfamiliar buildings draped in a thick layer of fog. I was lost. I had no sense of time or space. On the desk next to the TV was an assortment of pamphlets and menus that finally revealed my location, allowing me to crawl back into the here and now.
The engine sounds that triggered the panic attack sprung from a movie that was playing on TV—George Miller’s The Road Warrior—an extremely disconcerting post-apocalyptic tale of a desolate world filled with fiendish, relentless antagonists. The intrusion from the television seemed fitting somehow, considering my current state of mind.
I shook off my dopey malaise early the next morning and managed to catch the first ferry over to Quadra Island. It was a short crossing. The warmhearted generosity of the local island folk made hitching a ride to the other side of the island an effortless task.
I arrived at Heriot Bay ahead of schedule. Barrett’s trucks, which were in the process of being loaded onto a barge, were a comforting sight. Though I felt as if I had been dragged behind the bus for the entire journey from Calgary to the West Coast, my strength was beginning to return. I felt myself coming back into the light.
It was good to see Barrett. He elevated my spirit. He was his usual animated self, grinning ear to ear, looking for any opportunity to laugh out loud. The crew he had assembled was small. There were only a dozen of us. I was surprised to see six new faces, including two younger bucks named Ricky and Zach.
Ricky was a tall, lean and ruggedly handsome fellow. He immediately came off as loud and unrefined. He was the kind of guy who didn’t give a shit about what others thought of him—an admirable quality, I thought. He too loved to laugh out loud and, despite his crass nature, I immediately spotted a friend in him.
Zach was the polar opposite of his buddy. He was a solemn man with piercing green eyes. He appeared restless, brooding. He had a simmering intensity that could be felt the moment you entered his space. Though I greeted him warmly, shaking his hand, I resolved to keep my distance for the time being.
Ricky had also brought along a friend, a gentle and attentive Doberman pinscher named Lady. She was smaller in stature than most Dobies I had met, but she was very well conditioned. She had strong lines. It was obvious that Ricky loved his dog and took exceptionally good care of her.
Also on the crew were three familiar faces from the spring: Kelly, my first foreman, Ron, the ex-high-school English teacher and Nick, a Stetson-wearing cowboy with a thick southern drawl. The one person I had hoped to greet more than any other was not in evidence. No one could tell me where she was or how she was doing. In a way, I was relieved Debbie wasn’t there.
There was one detail concerning the Bute project that I must’ve missed when Barrett briefed me over the phone. We were to sail along with the trucks for the entire ten-hour barge ride to the head of the inlet. I was stoked. The prospect of slowly skirting some of the more isolated islands within the Discovery Island group, before entering the inlet itself, promised to heighten the level of adventure.
Our barge captain navigated our vessel with great finesse through the narrow, turbulent channels between the islands of Read, Maurelle, Raza, Sonora and Stuart. There were also numerous smaller islands, completely uninhabited, that created an obstacle course of sorts, requiring delicate navigation. Once we rounded Stuart, about four hours into the journey, Bute Inlet opened up before us. Though shrouded in layers of fog, it offered a glorious moment. We were now heading into mainland BC through an eighty-kilometre-long estuary; a classic fjord some four kilometres wide with steep mountains rising up to three thousand metres on both sides.
Shortly after we entered the inlet, the clouds opened up and light rain began to fall. As we made our unhurried advance through the calm, dark blue water, each kilometre revealed something singular, something extraordinary: spectacular waterfalls cascading from great heights, their genesis cloaked in thick layers of cumulus; granite cliffs rising many hundreds of metres above us—their extent was also obscured by the low ceiling; voluminous creeks emptying into the estuary with great drama. Every once in a while we’d spot a small abandoned cabin poking out of the forest, only metres above the high-tide line, on the verge of surrendering to the elements. I imagined grizzled old prospectors once having lived in them as they scoured the area for gold decades earlier.
The slow barge ride up the inlet was a lot to drink in. I used up more than half of the film I had brought along to document the adventure, unable to set my camera down for more than a few moments at a time.
Curiously, feelings of loneliness and isolation began to take hold the farther in we went. I suppose if we had flown, or travelled in a much faster craft, those feelings wouldn’t have had the opportunity to develop. The barge, burdened with the weight of trucks, fuel, gear and personnel, plodded along slowly through the dark calm water. By hour eight or nine, not having seen any other vessel travelling in or out, those feelings of loneliness and isolation gave way to a general sense of unease. I know I wasn’t the only one who felt it.
We arrived at the head of the inlet late in the afternoon. The plan was to drive the twenty-five kilometres to the Scar Creek logging camp, unload the trucks, and hike to a nearby creek where we’d pitch our tents. Once set up, we could sit down to a hot meal back in the camp dining hall. I had endured nearly forty-eight hours without any real food.
The road leading inland from the head of the inlet was built specifically for the purpose of harvesting trees and putting wood in the water.1 It did not link up with any other road or highway network. It terminated where the harvesting ended. Beyond that were hundreds of kilometres of pristine, untouched wilderness unbranded by human footprints.
It was a good half-hour drive from the beachhead to the Scar Creek camp. Stepping out of the truck, I immediately sensed something off about the place. It didn’t feel right. I quickly dismissed that first impression. I couldn’t trust it. I was still suffering from the residual effects of a fever and a codeine hangover.
The camp was well organized. Aside from a large machine shop and mess hall, there were a half-dozen mobile-home-like structures sprawled out across
