5/30/17, “The Return Journey”
Queen Charotte, British Columbia
Whenever I take a trip that necessitates me spending
multiple days in the same city, especially days with not much planned each day,
and I have a nice view from my hotel balcony, I always know that that view is
how I will always remember that location.
The view from my hotel in Kingstown is eternally etched into my mind’s
eye as the way I will always remember St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Likewise, this view, from my hotel balcony,
is how I will always remember the Queen Charlotte Islands.
My time here has come to an end, and I will
be making my way back home in a few hours.
This view, should I live to be 100, is a view I will never forget. I have enjoyed my team here, and I am very
glad to have said, “Western Canada Complete,” and to have seen SGang Gwaay. It is not a trip I will forget anytime soon,
but now I must prepare for The Return Journey.
After I closed last night, I published my entry and finished off the
rest of my melted ice cream before passing out.
I woke up to my alarm a little before 8 AM and headed out to
breakfast. After considering the brief
menu for far longer than necessary, I decided on the “American-style pancake
combo,” which was two pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, and broccoli. Broccoli?
What self-respecting American has broccoli with their pancakes in the
morning? Or even tomatoes? I asked them to hold the broccoli and
tomatoes, and they soon brought the food.
The pancakes did not look like any pancakes I ever saw back home, but it
all tasted fine. After breakfast, I
headed back to the hotel and arranged the shuttle to take me to the
airport. I then went out to the balcony,
where I lit up a Partagas and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now
close so that I can get some souvenirs before I pack and get ready.
Sandspit Airport, British Columbia (YZP)
Before I get into the bulk of my entry, allow me to paint
the scene. I am smoking a cigar, sitting
on a bench outside a small airport that services one flight a day to and from
the mainland. In front of me, I see a
small parking lot and a few houses.
Beyond that, it is only trees.
Trees as far as the eye can see.
Paired with those trees, not directly visible, are water and
mountains.
Besides me is a mug of
coffee, not a paper cup, a ceramic mug.
This is all washing down a hot dog and some chips. The food and coffee was acquired in the
following manner. Inside the airport,
there is an unattended cafe with some foodstuffs and a pot of coffee and
mugs. There is a board with prices
listed for the hot food items. The
coffee and chips did not have a price listed.
There is a mug with some coins in it.
The board said, “Honour system.”
Where am I? I asked a fellow
traveler how much the coffee was, and, in true rural Canadian fashion, he
answered, “Oh, there’s no real price, we just leave a few bucks in the
mug.” Okay, then. I took a hot dog, chips, and a cup of coffee,
put enough money in the mug to pay for everything, and sat down to eat my
lunch.
After my lunch, with my mug in
hand, I headed to this bench to smoke my cigar, drink my coffee, and write my
entry. My focus of this entry will be on
these rural northern towns. It will be
on similar moments to this. It will be
an ode to The North, and, as is my tradition, I will treat The Return Journey
in its entirety from my gate at YVR.
When I finish this entry, I hope it will be clear why I am so in love
with The North. I hope it will further
be clear why I am so looking forward to Greenland, perhaps more than any place
I have ever wanted to visit. If, by the
end of this entry, my reader does not understand why I am certain that
Greenland is sure to soon claim uncontended title of “my favorite place in the
world,” I have failed as a writer, and I have failed as a traveler. Reader, when I say, “The North,” what comes
to mind? Snow? Eskimos?
The Alaska wilderness? The
aurora? Russians wearing thick coats in
Siberia?
To me, other than the aurora,
The North means none of those things. To
me, it means a cool summer. It means
days with 20+ hours of daylight and a steady temperature in the 60s. It means rural communities only accessible by
one road if that, else by boat or plane.
It mean small towns with a mix of European-descended nationals, Chinese
immigrants, and natives that have lived here for generations, their way of life
only marginally affected by modern technology.
It means towns with a half-dozen restaurants, most of them serving
Chinese food. It means breathtaking
scenery everywhere you look. It means a
place to escape from it all, where nature and culture has become as one. There is nothing else like it in the world,
especially since I favor the natural scenery of The North to that of anywhere
else in the world.
For my money, the
single greatest passage of literature comes from Lord of the Rings, between
Eomer of the Rohirrim and the Dwarf Gimli.
For generations, the Dwarves and the Elves had been feuding with one
another, but circumstance forced Gimli to pass through the Elven domain of Lothlorien
with the Fellowship. He was afraid to
set foot in an Elven realm, but he followed his friends. When he was there, he was so enchanted by
Galadriel, the Lady of the Woods, his hostess, that the old feuds were
forgotten. He was enchanted by her
beauty, yes, but more so by her kindness, that an Elven queen would treat so
kindly a humble Dwarf.
After they left
Lothlorien, they soon found themselves in Rohan, where Eomer spoke unfavorably
about the Lady of the Woods, and Gimli, not caring that his party was
outnumbered ten-to-one by the Rohirrim, was prepared to fight to the death to
defend her honor. Aragorn defused the
situation, saying that they needed allies in the war, not enemies, but Gimli
demanded the argument resumed after the war and that he would duel Eomer to the
death if he was not prepared to admit she was the most beautiful woman in the
world.
After the war, all the Free Folk
came together, and Galadriel came to Aragorn’s coronation, when he was to be
wed to Arwen, who was known as the Evening Star, while Galadriel was identified
with the morning. Eomer and Gilmi, now
old friends having fought besides each other, met once more. Eomer had seen Galadriel, and he reported his
findings to Gimli, in a passage that still brings tears to my eyes for the
shear brilliance of the language, which I will try to recount as faithfully as
I can.
Eomer told Gimli that some words
still remained between them about the Lady of the Woods, and Gimli, hesitantly,
asked if should fetch his axe. Eomer
begged his patience so that he could explain. He said that, in any other company, he would
have said everything Gimli wished and more about Lady Galadriel, but he could
not bring himself to call Lady Galadriel the most beautiful woman in the world
having seen her next to Queen Arwen Evenstar.
He then asked if he should have his sword brought for their duel. In response, Gimli bowed low and said, “Nay,
my lord. Your heart belongs to the
evening, but mine belongs to the morning,” in reference to the respective
associations of their favored Elven ladies.
That line, after 1000 pages
of adventuring and warring, is just perfect, that they would come to such an
understanding. Why do I bring this
up? Most people would talk about pink
sand and blue water in the Caribbean as the most beautiful place in the
word. Their heart belongs to the
evening. Mine belongs to the
morning.
My heart belongs to The
North. It belongs to Alaska and Canada
and Maine and Fennoscandia. However,
those are but a taste of what The North has to offer. What is further north? Greenland, of course, with its fjorded
coastlines and endless water views among the mountains and icebergs.
Now, I promised some stories. I suppose we should start in Fort Simpson,
since that was my first true experience of The North. When I landed at the airport, someone, a
stranger, in a truck, asked where I was going.
I told him my hotel. He knew the
place and offered to take me there. I
did not feel a moment of danger or hesitation.
I then asked where to go for dinner, and I was told that the Chinese
restaurant was open pretty late. How
late? 8 PM. Okay, then.
I rushed over and had my first experience with Chinese food in The
North. Oversauced and overpriced, but it
sure was good.
Fast forward to Iqaluit
(where?), the capital of Nunavut (huh?).
It was the end of March and 0 degrees Fahrenheit. Everyone left their cars running when they
jumped into shops. There was no fear of
people stealing the car, but there was plenty of fear of the cars freezing if
they were left off without the block heater plugged in. I doubt that the police force gets even one
report of a car theft per year.
Now, we
come here, with the airport cafe on the “honour system,” and my reader can, I
believe, start to see the picture I am painting. While I will not disrespect my readers who
would prefer to spend their vacation on an all-inclusive five-star beach resort
in the Caribbean, their heart belongs to the evening. My heart belongs to the morning.
Now, what is even more remote than these
quaint towns in northern rural Canada?
The even quainter towns in Greenland.
I fully expect that Nuuk and Qaqortoq and Ilulissat will put to shame
Fort Smith and Fort Simpson and Iqaluit and Queen Charlotte. Now, reader, having followed along with me,
do you doubt what I have I said about Greenland, or should I fetch my axe?
Vancouver International Airport, British Columbia (YVR)
My previous entry was an ode to The North. This entry will be dedicated to The
West. Once you get past the Mississippi
River, and this applies to the land above the 49th Parallel, as
well, it gets steadily more beautiful the further west you go. It starts with the prairie, which is an
underrated source of natural beauty.
Next you get the Rockies, which are stunning enough below the 49th
Parallel but even more striking above the 49th Parallel. What comes after that?
Well, the most beautiful places on this
landmass. You get the Pacific Northwest
if you only go as far Oregon and Washington, but, keep following the coast to
the west, which necessarily takes you north, and you get British Columbia, The
Yukon, and, if you dare, Alaska. The
further west you go, the more water, trees, and mountains intermix.
You get those wooded mountains separated by
small bodies of water, as I saw in the Queen Charlotte (Haidi Gwaii) Islands
this trip. You get the wondrous beauty
of Juneau. You get Kluane National Park
and the glaciers of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, collectively the most
beautiful WHS I have ever visited, with only Waterton-Glacier and the Canadian
Rockies coming close. However, all three
of those WHS have that same northwestern geography.
While we have Acadia in Maine, and the Great
Smokies and the Everglades in the southeast, they are rookies compared to what
The West has to offer. There is a reason
my trip to the National Parks of the American West is the second greatest trip
I have ever taken, second only to Rio 2016.
The Grand Canyon and the National Parks we saw in Utah are spectacular,
each one of them putting to shame anything found east of the Mississippi, but there
was so much in The West that we didn’t see that trip. California alone has Yosemite and the
Redwoods. Washington has Olympic. Wyoming and Montana share Yellowstone.
This is what The West has to offer, titans
compared to their cousins in Maine and the southeast. I do not know why it played out that way, and
perhaps in the 16th Century there were natural features east of the
Mississippi that could rival those in The West.
Perhaps 300 years of unrestrained cultural destruction of nature with no
eye towards conservationism is why we only have these morsels. On the other hand, it was decades, not
centuries before after the first settlers went into The West that the likes of
John Muir came along.
That said, you
cannot make or unmake mountains, and it is clear that no mountain range east of
the Mississippi can hold a candle to the Rockies. Where am I going with all of this? Here’s where I’m leading. If you combine The North with The West, by
which I mean British Columbia northwest of Vancouver, The Yukon, and Alaska,
you get something truly special. Reader,
if you think that the forests and mountains and waters of Oregon and
Washington, what you call the Pacific Northwest, are special, just hold your
breath and go to what I call The Northwest.
I probably should have just finished that cigar. The thing about tradition is, a new precedent
can always set a new tradition. It is
not one that something that I do lightly.
In fact it is something that I only do with the utmost of deliberation
and consideration, but, sometimes rationality justifies establishing a new
precedent. The case in point here is
whether or not to close out the trip tonight or in the morning. I had thought that I would clear US border
control here at the airport, but, due to the late hour of the flight, I will
actually have to wait until I land at JFK to clear border control.
Tradition dictates that I do not close out
the trip until after I have cleared border control. However, writing about my flight home, on which
I intend to sleep, and clearing border control at JFK hardly makes an
entry. If necessary, I could write an
epilogue about that, but I think I need to break that tradition and apply the
domestic rules to overnight international flights. If I am at my gate for an international
redeye, I can close out the trip at that point, just as I would for a domestic
flight. This is the new precedent I will
be setting by closing the trip now. The
other main reason for doing this is that the specific line I will use to close
this trip is going to be far more appropriate to this entry. Okay, so, all that remains is to treat The
Return Journey in its entirety.
After I
closed at Queen Charlotte, I went for a bit of a walk, only to discover I had
locked my keys in my room. They were
going to hate me. I got some souvenirs
and enjoyed the sights for one last time.
I then headed back to my room, packed, and got ready. I headed down, where the shuttle almost
immediately appeared, and it took us to the ferry terminal. We had almost an hour to kill, so I lit up an
Oliva.
Soon enough, we were on the ferry,
which was a short ride, and I saw our friend from Saturday. I did not say anything. From there, we headed to the airport, where I
had my lunch as previously described and had a La Palina and wrote my ode to
The North.
It was then time to go
through security at Sandspit, and we boarded the prop plane, which would take
us to Vancouver. I had Seat 1A, and the
seat next to me was empty. It was like
flying first class, minus the alcohol. I
did some travel planning and took a bit of a nap. By this point, my charger was almost
nonfunctional, not just slow, so I knew I would need to replace it at YVR.
We landed soon enough, and I got a burger
with bacon, mushrooms, and onions, along with fries, for an early dinner from a
place called Vera’s Burger Shack, which was quite good. I then went outside, where I wrote my ode to
The West. I lit up a La Espinosa, which
was so bad that I threw it out after a few minutes in favor of a Camacho, which
actually wasn’t much better.
After I
closed, I did a little travel planning, but it was cold, and I just wanted to
go inside, so I headed to security.
After security, I stocked up on maple and salmon products at
duty-free. Another shop had cigars, but
they were too expensive, so I took a pass.
I thought to myself, “Hopefully, I’ll have better luck in Reykjavik.” I then headed to my gate, which was not yet
open due to US regulations, and that is why I thought that I should have just
finished my Camacho.
Regardless, I found
a seat by the gate, where I sat down and proceeded to write this entry, which I
will now close, along with closing out this trip. I am not sure if my trip to Boston will be an
overnight trip or not, and I am leaning towards no, so that will not count as a
proper trip. Next stop: Iceland and
Greenland for what promises to easily be a top five trip of my life.
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