TEES KWAT OR BIG RIVER - January 16, 2018

At dawn, the first I’ve wakened for in many a day, a three-container barge crosses the inlet to unload chips at the Catalyst paper mill. No longer are raw logs hauled to the mill, but chipped where they fall and then trucked by land or barged by water to where paper is being manufactured.

The quiet bay is alive with ducks, gulls and a single sea lion. A pair of common mergansers fish near shore, while a half dozen bald-pate ducks pick bits from the sea wall. Western gulls, both adults and juveniles, vie for the best bits among opened oyster and clamshells left by the sea lion at last nights low tide.

The townsite of Powell River is the ancestral home of the Tla'amin First Nation, and along Willingdon beach are relics of thousands of years of civilization; a stone fish trap at a creek mouth, huge shell middens, petroglyphs and trees altered by long gone hands. It is a place ageless and sacred.

A truck bearing massive western red cedar logs passes us and I feel such sadness. Though I know that for the most part harvesting of these giants is controlled, and I know they are destined to become beautiful wood products, I still mourn the loss of a living organism that came into being before our nation began.

Hundreds of sea lions line the floating break wall, barges and docks that surround the log pond at the Powell River paper mill, their barking a cacaphony of 

Yelps, barks, growls and roars though we are a quarter of a mile away. Manny stands transfixed by the sound while I watch amazed as these creatures cruise until they locate an empty roost then easily heave themselves up from the water to haul aboard to dry and preen. If they misjudge and try to take an occupied spot, they are met with load roars and sharp teeth, and must slide back into the water. The roosting bulls on the float line, rise up with their massive heads pulled back and threaten each other with fierce posturing. Two faced-off bulls resemble stone lions, while the cows occupy an adjacent float piled casually atop one another.

My grandmother spoke fondly of visiting relatives on the west coast who built a home on oceanfront property; a home that encircled two trees. Her frequent reference to Arbutus makes me think they may have been this species native to coastal British Columbia - Arbutus menziesii. This highly visible tree which often grows on cliff or ravine edges has rough outer bark that sheds to reveal a cinnamon-coloured inner bark and are ever-green with the glossy umbrells of leaves and orange to red fruit.

The fog has condensed into pearls of moisture that glisten on every branch tip, twig and needle. This is what creates the Pacific Northwest coastal rainforest with all its green lushness.

The sun has reappeared, so we are continuing up the Sunshine Coast to Lund today instead of crossing to Vancouver Island. We lunched in Desolation Sound and Manny ran in and out of the water fetching oyster shells. He has developed a nasty rash on his belly and legs so he is going to the vet tomorrow - I thought perhaps the salt water might dry it out. Usually, it is me who needs the doctor.

The deep croaking bark of a sea lion breaks the soft dark of the night as we walk along the sea wall late in the evening. In its rush to the join the salt water, a rill of fresh water hurtles downslope from Powell River town above to gush out onto the rocky beach. A soft warm wind gusts out onto the bay from the shore and with it comes the first patters of rain. So ends our day in the sun.

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