Why camping on Ruckle never disappoints me

I decided, spur of the moment, that I felt like camping at Ruckle Park this past week. I wanted to be there before the kids got out of school because in mid summer it can get way too busy for my liking. I knew it was this week or not at all, at least not until fall perhaps.

I got an online deal on a Budget car rental and headed to the island on Tuesday, a hot hot day. I had my trusty gardening wagon to take my stuff to the walk-in campsites and found a perfect site with some shade from fir trees and an unobstucted view of the ferry parade on the ocean out front.

It has been a long time, definitely more than 5 years, since I've used the tent, and it showed. Luckily, there weren't many people around to watch the fiasco. The problem was the fly which should be easy peasy to put up but it had this interesting entry cover that made it not obvious to me.

Later that night when I went to go to sleep on my blow-up mattress, the mattress completely deflated within about 30 minutes and I was basically lying on hard ground, which, given that my hips often hurt at the best of times, was pretty excruciating through the night.

Note to self: even when ground looks flat, test things out before it's time for sleep. I looked like some squirrel buiding a nest inside as I went round and round, each corner covered, to try and find a flat sleeping area and then being bunched right up against the bottom wall, the sole flat spot.

I beelined it to town the next day for Tylenol, a new blow up mattress, a couple of craft beer and chocolate. Camping in your sixties is like buying shoes: comfort first!

The best part is, and the part that never fails me almost every time I've ever camped at Ruckle, is the people I meet there. This time I met Joey, a tugboat worker from Ladysmith. He was camping for one night in the smallest tent ever as his wife was doing some mega trail running race up in northern B.C. out of Nimpo Lake Lodge. I really enjoyed talking to him because they had travelled extensively and he was a super nice guy who blew all my stereotypes about who might work on tugboats.

There was Sue, a retired doctor and her husband and their beautiful 11-year-old Australian Shepherd From Summerland, they were camping for a week before visiting their daughters in Victoria.

And Anna Clara, a 20-something social media nomad who also, spur of the moment, arrived from Vancouver.

It reminded me of the time I met the Libyan.

On Wednesday, another hot day, I made my way to a nearby lake which shall remain nameless on purpose. I walked into the water, the small entryway surrounded by lily pads as if they were placed their to welcome us. I glided into the water which, compared to the ocean, was incredibly warm. Dragon flies. The sparkling cool emerald liquid to luxuriate in. The sounds of bird call. Farther out, on a floating dock there were five naked local maidens, catching up on each other's days. A scene you're not likely to find in the city and I can only admire their comfort with their bodies.

Thank you Salt Spring for always delivering what I need, when I need it, even when it's just lazy quiet time to soak in your beauty; a quick reprieve.

My life as a concert wasteland

In early December, I went to this special storytelling event hosted at the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, B.C., in conjunction with the exhibit, Beyond the Beat: Music of Resistance and Change, which ends Jan.5, 2026. 

Six  individuals from a variety of cultural backgrounds shared stories about their personal intersections with music and concerts or concert venues that really stood out for them as milestones in their lives.  

After that event, I reflected back on my own musical background and it made me question how someone who likes music, and who took piano lessons for 9 years, could have had so few concert experiences growing up.

I went to almost no concerts as a teen or young adult. In contrast, when I was in my late 20s, I met a friend who was so into music that she even worked at a place that was a precursor to The Society of Composers, Authors and Music Publishers of Canada (SOCAN), which I believe may have been called Performing Rights Organization. The office was located just off Robson Street on Thurlow in a second floor office. I too worked there for a while as the receptionist and until writing this, I'd forgotten all about that. It was short-lived. 

The woman who ran the place, Lynne Partridge, had a dramatic personality and according to Google was inducted into the BC Entertainment Hall of Fame in 2020-2021 for her work on performing rights. The prominent Canadian music manager and booking agent, Bruce Allen, would occasionally pop in.

I remember this same friend, Pam Melnyk (who must have got me the job), dragging me to a Nick Cave concert at the Town Pump in Gastown in the 1980s. I'd never even heard of Nick Cave back then. If my memory serves me correctly, he may have started the concert by coming out of a coffin or maybe he just looked like he’d died and had just risen.  All I could think, watching and listening was, “I hate this. How long is this night gonna last?” 

“Nick Cave” by NRK P3, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

I now realize how incredibly "lucky" I was to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds in such a small venue for a relatively cheaply-priced ticket. Now, 39 years later, another friend whose brother lives in Liverpool told me recently that he was desperately seeking a ticket to a Nick Cave concert in Ireland and debating whether he could afford the lofty price. It blows my mind that all these years later, Nick Cave is still performing and is such a legend.

Pam and I also went on a trip to San Francisco in 1987 or 1988 and she was so excited to show me the Haight-Ashbury District and point out the places where Janis Joplin hung out and performed. 

It was such a great trip. When we got on the plane to come home, a voice over the P.A. system announced the flight was overbooked and they'd be willing to pay for an extra night in a hotel if anyone wanted to get off. We dashed off that plane so fast, hands raised, deliriously happy to spend one more night in San Fran. You'd think we'd won the lottery. It didn't even matter that they wouldn't give us back our luggage for the night.

I was raised in such a straight-laced family and I was a really quiet and shy kid so I didn't really grow up with a friend group that I hung out with. I had my basketball team and one really close friend and we didn't go to concerts because we had no money. Maybe that explains it, not that it’s convincing enough. 

Mostly we spent time just listening to albums. Carole King. Earth,Wind and Fire. Chicago. Fleetwood Mac. The Cars. The Band. Pat Benetar. Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music. The Doobie Brothers. The BeeGees. Annie Lennox. The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.   

We went to Pink Floyd when their music was the background as part of some light show at the Vancouver Planetarium in the 1970s. I recall going to Paul Simon and Elton John concerts at B.C. Place but that's about it. Oh, and David Cassidy. Can’t forget that heartthrob from back in my day.

Like so many families, we had one of those old stereo systems in a big wooden console with the record player inside and my parents listened to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. I think they had a Louis Armstrong and a Nat King Cole album. My sisters had a 45 of Petula Clark singing "Downtown" that they'd play all the time. Or when we finally got a black and white TV, we'd watch Ed Sullivan on Sunday nights when the Jackson Five and The Supremes and Tiny Tim were first on his show. Wow. Do I ever feel old writing this!  

Anyway, I know this post has nothing to do with Salt Spring, but if you have a chance to catch the exhibit at the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, and you're of a certain age, it's bound to bring up some personal music memories.

Even if you don't go, why not slow down, grab a Bailey's, do some daydreaming and take a mental stroll down your own musical memory lane. 

I'm absolutely certain it will be a million times more interesting than mine. 

Sharon Bailey releases third album, Turn This Thing Around

I met up with my friend Gail Sjuberg, managing editor at Driftwood Publishing Ltd., for our annual seasonal lunch in Sidney at The Surly Mermaid.

Gail had just written an article on Canadian singer/songwriter Sharon Bailey as the cover story for Aqua magazine's November/December issue. 

As we wrapped up our meeting, Gail handed me a bag of goodies, one of which was a new CD, Bailey's third and brand new album, Turn This Thing Around, produced, recorded and mixed by Victoria's Adrian Dolan.

When I got home last night, I read Gail's story and popped in the CD. I'm listening to it again as I write this because, you know how it is -- it takes more than one listen to decide which songs you really love on an album.

As Gail quotes Dolan in her article, the album moves between "traditional country, classic rock, Canadian folk and swampy southern blues." 

My favourite songs were Storm, End of the Beginning, Everything has its Turn, My First Lover, Turn this Thing Around, We Got our Reasons, and Beware of the Dog. It's a strong and musically-cohesive CD. 

I first met Sharon Bailey back in 2008 when I moved into a sublet she was offering on property that she and her partner, Robert McTavish, were renting on island. It would be another 10 years before she released her first album, The Heart of Everything.

I will come clean and say that I never go out of my way to listen to country music and I haven't seen Sharon in years, but I really enjoyed this album because of her voice, her original lyrics and the musical diversity of each song.

It always really impresses me when someone keeps focused on a passion just because their music is who they are. This album is something I'm sure that she, and the professional musicians who backed her up, must be really proud of. It's definitely worth a listen and worth supporting a local musician who deserves recognition for her longterm commitment to her songwriting and her music.

She's officially launching it this Saturday night at Moby's, Dec. 13, 2025, at 8 p.m., and you can buy a copy off her website or BandCamp and a few bricks and mortar locations in Victoria and Vancouver.

Read the article in Aqua Magazine.

Album cover photos by Stasia Garraway

Album design: Evan Pine

“Helicopter Steve" Heskamp

On Saturday morning I looked at the Salt Spring Exchange newsletter that gets deposited into my email account and was shocked and then filled with sadness to read that Helicopter Steve died on Tuesday, Sept. 16.

I have thought in the days since about whether it would be okay or not to write anything about him on here because I did not know him well. But I do recall at least one meaningful interaction with him that has stuck with me all these years later. 

Of course this was a long time ago now, probably in 2010, so I do not know the circumstances of his life in the present or in the years since I left the island.

On one of the days he came into the employment centre where I worked, he told me he was trying to decide whether to continue to try and get helicopter assignments or not and it felt like a difficult decision. I could feel and hear that he was really struggling with it.

I believe, if I’m remembering correctly, one of his concerns was that he had some ethical issues about being the person to deposit people to mining projects and other projects that had environmental impacts. On the other side of the decision was his ability to make good money should he continue doing that work.  

He did apply for the job then, and he did go back to flying helicopters. I do not now how long that lasted or where the work took him at that time but it did seem like a good decision in terms of its financial impact on his life.

When I read what his sister and a friend wrote on the Exchange in separate postings, it was, as they described, his way of being, his openness and generous spirit, his childlike and philosophical nature, and his smile that were some of the qualities he had that stayed with me after I met him. 

One time at Moby’s on a Saturday night all those years ago, I recall Tal Bachman and his band then (no Randy) playing and the dance floor was packed. I remember being near Steve, all his limbs swinging  wildly, and I think he may have even had on rubber boots. In my memory, he almost looked like a helicopter in his movements. It was such a fun evening.

Here is what his sister wrote in the Salt Spring Exchange: https://saltspringexchange.com/list/good-bye-helicopter-steve-known-to-his-family-as-stephen-john-heskamp/

A friend of his wrote something as well: https://saltspringexchange.com/list/obituary-helicopter-steve-heskamp/ 

His celebration of life is at The Local on Sunday, Sept. 28 at noon, a corrected date from what was originally published.

I'm sure his island friends will have a lot of interesting memories, and definitely a few beers, to ease their sorrow a little bit.

Mayne Island visit and memories

I always find it interesting how each Southern Gulf Island in B.C. has a very different vibe. Mayne Island has one of the most chill vibes. You can feel your shoulders lower within an hour of being there. It's so relaxing once you're there, it's hard not to want to nap.

I visited my friends Donna and Eric who have lived on the island for more than 25 years and it was so nice to get out of James Bay in Victoria, take in their mini Saturday market where Donna sells her jewellery and photo cards and visit the busiest place in town, their Thrift Store. We then drove out to Bennett Bay and took a stroll out to the point looking down onto the beach. We hung out in their backyard, which for me, as a non land owner, is a total luxury. Later on, we went down to Reef Bay and went swimming in the ocean before dinner where other locals had gathered for a dip on the small beach. Being the citified one, I had on water shoes Donna had given me during a previous visit to keep any little crabs from potentially gnawing on my toes. I thought back to my visit in 2023 when Donna and I were enjoying an ocean swim and then spotted two seals heading straight for us and we freaked out and scrambled out of the water as fast as we could in a moment of terror. Silly girls!

The three of us took a walk to Georgina Point early Sunday morning and sat on the new benches and  took in the ever spectacular views across to Galiano where a ferry was already working. They relayed stories of some of the people they knew, including themselves, who managed to live rent-free in caretaker positions, a reality that is almost impossible to come by now. With the onslaught of new property owners, many of them very part-time, the island they used to know, has shifted.

We went back home and puttered. Donna cut my hair in a chair in their backyard which is a luxury in itself, to have a friend fussing over your hair, snipping here and there. I didn't care how it turned out, I just loved the intimacy of the experience.  Donna made lunch and we relocated to their side deck. I took a look at an incredible photo album of all the wooden boats Eric has made in the past and got a peek into his workshop, don't call it a Man Cave. His "library" is full of books, and some incredibly detailed sketches he did in his earlier years, photos of boats, record albums and a t.v. which Donna forbids from "her house." He built the whole house with his own hands (with her help) but she's in charge! Early Sunday afternoon we went for a walk in the forest near the Mayne Island Brewery which I didn't even know existed and it was nice to see a newish spot to me, full of locals and tourists alike at the tables positioned throughout the yard.

I have so many memories of Mayne. My mom first took my brother and I there when we were maybe nine or 10 years old. A friend of hers, had a cabin on the island for a time. In my late twenties, I went there with Will before spending the majority of our time at Ruckle Park on Salt Spring. I also took more than a few cycling day trips in my thirties with a friend I knew then, Glenys. Our real excuse for all that exercise was to end up on the deck of the now closed Springwater Lodge for a beer, a burger and fries, and the view. I so wish someone with tons of money would buy that place and fix it up because I think it has to be one of the best views in all the Gulf Islands, right at the start of Active Pass and it's part of so many Mayne Island memories for so many people, good and bad, I'm guessing.

I think about the time I rented some tiny shack above Horton Bay and had to cycle there not realizing how far it was from the ferry, and the challenge of the gravel road that climbed up to reach it. My friend Colleen came to visit and I know she must have been swearing out loud with every push on the pedals, given that she wasn't in the regular habit of riding a bike. I made at least one trip on my own on my old fluorescent pink and lime green mountain bike, and I took a break at Georgina Point. I was lying down and suddenly  heard another person yell the distinct, "Whales" and as I sat up, I spotted at least four whales, moving fast with one of them stopping to spyhop. It was spectacular because of how close they were.

There was the time pre-Covid, maybe 2018, I walked 22,000 steps because I wanted to get out of Victoria, and so once I got to the island, I walked to the little village then took a break and had some food. I then kept walking down to Geogina Point where the lighthouse is. After a rest, I walked down to Bennett Bay and back in one day before walking back to the ferry to come back to the city. That is a Forrest Gump amount of walking for one day for me. I did love the feeling of freedom that comes from movement, walking along the side of the road there, admiring Arbutus trees and ravens and inhaling the dry grasses and the sounds of the birds and the peace. It's an experience I think everyone should have: Walking only with your thoughts as company on a Gulf Island in the forest, along the beach, on the side of a road where you'll notice things you never would in a car.

Come to a think of it, here's a book recommendation: The Old Ways; A Journey on Foot by Robert Macfarlane, 2012.

A quick catch up at Sacred Mountain Lavender

I did a quick trip to Salt Spring this past week to drop off more of my books to Adina at Salt Spring Books and to take advantage of the time to see a friend for a short visit so that we could go to Sacred Mountain Lavender or more specifically she could drive me before depositing me back to the ferry.

There's quite major road construction coming out of Ganges to the south. I believe they are widening the road and putting in a bike lane to make it safer for cyclists which could mean a delay if you're a tourist who isn't aware of such things and thinking of visiting. On that day our wait was minimal.

I've always had a love of Sacred Mountain Lavender because of good memories when I first attended the lavender festival they used to put on many years ago. Unfortunately, because of popularity, and the impact of having too many people wandering around near their home, they have closed the lower field which was my favourite so I was a little disappointed about that. But the real purpose of my visit was to  pick up some more of their high quality products, especially the lavender spritzer and the oil, and I just like to be there, to linger in the fields. 

Lavender forces you to inhale, slow down, and dream. You want to linger and take in the colour purple at the height of the season.

It gave us a chance to catch up, savour some tasty lavender tea and sit for a while in the peace on a weekday afternoon.

If you're curious about all the products they sell, and can't get to the island, you can order off their website: https://sacredmountainlavender.com/lavender-shop/

That way you can keep one of summer's favourite and historic herbal scents around you, or on you, throughout the year.

Childhood memories through Alan Woodland's words

Yesterday, I was doing the ever-routine task of laundry which for me as a renter means having to take the elevator down to the first floor and go into the communal laundry room. It's my least favourite task. I'm not sure if thats because it reminds me I have never owned my own washer and dryer and that definitely feels like a fail or if it's because the gathering, the sorting, the steps leading up to being ready to do laundry always feel a bit daunting for some inexplicable reason. Then afterwards, it feels the same as well, not a big deal and should have been done sooner afterall. 

As in a lot of older apartment buildings, there is a common room somewhere near the laundry room and the one in my building is large and dark, full of books that other tenants have left, an assortment of furniture, an old piano, which I hadn't even realized was there. On one of the bookshelfs someone has left two books standing up as if a librarian has curated these two books they most want to spotlight.

My eyes were immediately drawn to one of them, a poetry book, because of the author's name: Alan Woodland, In the Space Between. His signature was written on the first page. The bill, tucked inside, made it clear it was purchased from Black Bond Books in Maple Ridge at Valley Fair Mall. It looks like the book may have been a gift bought Dec. 11, 2021. The book was published in 2021.

It's a slim book with a white cover. There's a picture of a beach in black and white, and a person, gender undistinguishable, running at the shoreline. Alan Woodland's photo is, as customary, on the back cover.

The reason this book stood out, and the author's name, is because my eldest sister, Heather, who died from breast cancer in 1991 at 43 years of age had worked with him at the New Westminster Public Library where he had been its chief librarian for many years. 

In the late sixties, and into the early 70s, I would hear his name mentioned at our kitchen table and always with reverance. I conjured up what he might be like.  A man of letters. Sophisticated. Gentle. Funny. This is the image I created of him based on some of the stories I heard of him, without having ever met him. On at least one occasion my sister would bring a co-worker or two home from the library for lunch and as a young child, 13 years younger than her, her work there, and the pile of books on her bedside table, her light on in her bedroom into the wee hours of a night, seemed ever present.

Is finding the book a sign from my sister? It made me happy to think that way. Why not? Of all the books people leave, why was that one on top of the bookshelf awaiting the right reader, a poetry book so many people would have no interest in at all? I like to think it was not a coincidence. Someone had to bring that book on a ferry to get it here to Victoria. How long has it lived on the island? Was it purchased at the epic annual Times Colonist book sale?  Was the person who put the book in our common room still living in the building? Did they read the book before putting it down there? I don't have any answers, and probably never will but it's my treasure now.

Alan Woodland would be about 95 years old now. I do believe he is still alive. I'm sure it would please him to know someone who has never met him, has a very warm feeling about him as a result of a sister who once worked for him in her hopeful, youthful days long before cancer took hold. 

I think seeing his face on the back cover may be the first time I have ever been able to put a face to the memories I have of this man's connection to my sister all those years ago.

It would be wrong not to share some of his words from one of his poems here. I've chosen a short one that seems appropriate in this context:

Between the Lines

We poets

write out of the long history

of ancestors and family

our hands in their earth

our words warmed by their fires

voices of ancient pipes

echo in our vowels

We poets

watch antd wait

sensing

the turning of their seasons

sunrise

moonwane

their stars in our breath

their tides in our hearts

We poets

listen for footsteps

snatches of old songs

search for fleeting shadows

dancing between the lines

- Alan Woodland

As an update, I heard from Alan Woodland's grandson, Chris, who told me that Alan passed away on June 27, 2025. He said his grandfather would have been so touched to read this blog post.

Ruckle Farm Day Fun

I finally made it back to Ruckle Farm Days yesterday.

I think it has been about 15 years since I last went and that just freaks me out to see that number highlighting how much time has passed.

It was a stellar day on the top deck of the ferry from Swartz Bay on the 11 a.m. The wind was non existent which meant my hat could stay on with no effort as I soaked in a warm spring making it feel that summer vacation had arrived.

Every time I take the ferry to visit Salt Spring, which is not that often anymore, it takes me right back to that late September day when I first moved there in 2008 with Neil and Richard as my movers and the excitement of a fresh beginning floating as distinctly as the cumulus clouds. 

I'm sure there are other places in the world where this kind of local event happens but I'm also just as sure these types of local events steeped in the history of a place and innocence and community are harder to come by, at least the closer one's proximity to bigger cities.

I didn't see any laptops. There were no video games to keep kids entertained. Just goats, sheeps, lambs, Highland cattle and their calves. Plus the farm's two hard working sheep dogs. The farm managers, Mike and Marjorie Lane. The Lions Club volunteers sweating over the hot coals to cook hot dogs and hamburgers and lamb burgers. Blacksmiths tending to the fire and sharing their craft with those who were keen to try. Tables with ginger and chocolate chip cookies. And even the recreation of some Salt Spring history using dolls and implements tended lovingly by a woman who was passionate about the history of American Girl dolls.

I love these type of events where community members have time to chat, the picnic tables fill up and little groups of kids dot the grass in their own aimated conversations.

After more than 30 years of visiting Ruckle Farm and Park, yesterday was the first time I actually got to step inside the old farmhouse. I guess the artifact that most caught my attention was the crest on the wall with the Ruckle name under it. I'd never seen that before.

There's something so comforting about just enjoying a fresh field, fresh air and the comfortable company of an old friend.

And by the number of cars in the grass field doubling as the parking area, I'm not alone in finding the appeal of this type of event.

Mark your calendars for next year if you missed it.

Salt Spring Christmas time revisited

Salt Spring makes a great Christmas visit, especially if you have friends that live there. 

I won't be going there this year but I do have the memories of Christmases past to fondly think back on.  My first Christmas season there in 2008 was especially thrilling with all the markets and concerts, the overflowing camaraderie, and the natural beauty on the island in winter.

As a young child, I was blessed to have had very happy Christmases with family and extended family in the form of grandparents, aunts and uncles and a few cousins around to inhale the abundance of good food and Christmas goodies. 

The magic of that time, especially Christmas morning shared with my twin brother and three older sisters, is filled with pretty happy memories. I realize now what a blessing that was because as we all know, unfortunately, happiness at Christmas is an experience too many children and families can't relate to at all.  

That first Christmas on the island was the the first time I saw the whirlwind who is Pauline in action, and so I thought it might be fun to repost the link to my original experience of that. 

I hope you enjoy. You'll have to copy the URL below and paste it into your browser. Sorry. Old school!

https://spiritofsaltspring.blogspot.com/2008/12/paulines-christmas-kitchen.html

Drop-in tourism and privilege

Mrs. Ramirez on her family's organic vegetable farm along the Xochimilco canal. The land gets passed from generation to generation and is strictly regulated. She is shown here with a photo of her beloved dog Max who had passed. She would put his photo on the altar created for Dia de los Muertos celebrations that were upcoming when we were there.

I recently returned from Mexico City, Puebla and Oaxaca. I've wanted to go to Oaxaca for a long time. In fact, it was so long ago that I wanted to go there that as the years have piled on, I'd stopped wanting to go there if that makes any sense. 

Then while exploring possibilities for a short vacation off the Intrepid Travel website, it just sort of came up as a possibility that fit the time, the schedule, and the cost of what I was willing to spend for an eight-day vacation. I had not been to Mexico in 27 years when in 1997 I went through the Yucatan Peninsula to Cancun, Playa del Carmen, Merida, (Chichen Itza), Tulum, Palenque and San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas.

Maybe it's age. Maybe it's travel experience, but this time, more than last, I felt more relaxed once I'd arrived, the culture was vibrant, the people were friendly and I would consider returning for a longer time period, at least to Oaxaca, and more specifically to the Indigenous villages that surround it which they call Pueblos Mancomunados, six small mountain communities open to visitors. Google Translate helped.

It never ceases to amaze me, possibly because I don't travel all that frequently to overseas destinations, that it's possible to be sitting in my sedate little apartment one day and the very next be in Mexico City in Frida Kahlo's house and gardens or riding a camel in the Sahara Desert, or cycling around on a small island across from Phnom Penh, or riding down a world-famous and protected canal (Xochimilco) in a strange little boat powered by a young guy with a pole as his only propeller and decorated for what was the upcoming Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) festivities, in a foreign environment impossible to have imagined just 24 hours before.

The privilege of "dropping in" as an international tourist is astounding. Each time I set foot on a plane, I do think about the environment. Intrepid Travel uses local guides and tries to give back to the places where they do their tours, including through their Foundation, and they have a B-Corp rating related to social and environmental responsibility.

I consider my footprint to be pretty small. I don't own a car. I belong to a car cooperative, Modo. I walk seven minutes to work when I'm not working from home. 

But, life is short and there are more international destinations I hope to get to and obviously, I'm not alone. From January to November 2023, Canadian residents returned from 43.4 million trips abroad representing 83.9% of the pre-pandemic level from 2019. (Stats Can)

R.I.P. Don Mellor

I heard that Don Mellor, a long-time Salt Spring resident, died in September at the age of 81.

This reminded me that I met Don in the parking lot of Moby's pub when I first arrived on Salt Spring in October 2008.

I didn't know him well but I interacted with him enough to feel sad when I heard of his passing. He was very fit and I always imagined him living into his 90s.

Rest in Peace, Don.  

Here's the blogpost I wrote when I first met him. Karin Jones and I went sailing with him on the L'Orenda one day in the spring of 2009.

Salt Spring Island's American sister: Vashon Island

I first went to Vashon Island, which is a 22-minute ferry ride out of downtown Seattle from Pier 50, in 2018. The water taxi only runs on weekdays and it may just be an experiment at this point, but otherwise, you can take the Fauntleroy Ferry off the island and arrive in West Seattle in less than 10 minutes and then catch the Rapid C line back into downtown Seattle and vice versa.

Because I like to travel on the cheap, which is never cheap anymore, I stayed at the American Hostel Hotel in the International District, in a single room which, even though it's a hostel still costs almost $100 US a night. I like this hostel because it's super organized, close to transportation, and clean with strict rules about not allowing guests who aren't checked in.

The first time I went to Vashon Island I stayed with Sally at her super cute yellow house near Dockton on Maury Island which connects to Vashon by road. At that time, she had her beloved beagle, Elinor, and had just adopted a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy named Daisy who was super cute.  Sally was very hospitable so it was nice to see her again for coffee at one of the island's coffee shops called Minglement or the Vashon Island Coffee Roasterie, during this visit.

This time I stayed in a more than 100 year old Inn called Marjesira that was apparently built before there were roads on the island. At one time it was a country store. It's now owned by a woman who has lived on island for more than 38 years. On my way over, I met a woman who has lived here for 50 years. I feel like there are some long time islanders and then some new ones who are exploring their dreams, renovating old houses that will scare them by emptying their piggy banks to the very last penny.

Here's the thing about islands like Vashon and Salt Spring. I'll give you just one example of old world goodness.

I had been to the bookstore and bought two books. A Mary Oliver book on poetry and a book called Wanderers: A History of Women Walking.  While waiting for the 118 bus on a bench, a very friendly guy sat down and because he was so chatty, when I got up to get on the bus, I was distracted and left my books on the bench. It wasn't until I got back to Marjesira that I realized I'd left my books somewhere. I decided to put a note on the Vashon Island Facebook page and within minutes of posting that,  a woman sent me a message saying she had picked them up. We arranged for her to drop them back off at the bookstore where I'd purchased them, so I could get them back proving that Facebook can be useful and that of course there are still honest people in the world.

Because I didn't have a car, I didn't get to see the 20 foot Thomas Dambo troll near the Pt. Robinson Lighthouse.

I went to the Dragon's Head Cidery and although I'm not really a cider person, I did get a tasting and had a delicious appetizer for lunch of hummus, watercress, baked pumpkin seeds, braised red onion and pita chips. Loved the taste of those combinations. I also stopped by Pop Pop, and spoke with the very friendly owner/bartender who was super knowledgeable about craft beers and even has a refrigerator full of beers just labelled "weird beer." They sell wine there as well and non alcoholic drinks. And real food like their teriyaki chicken.

If you're in Seattle, it's a quick trip to Vashon and back for a daytrip to the island if you are so inclined. You can even rent an e-bike there. 

And if you're a Vashon Islander, you need to visit Salt Spring, your Canadian sister island (not officially) but in spirit.

The real people in my book: At One with an Island: Salt Spring Revisited

Pauline McDonald

Marjorie and Mike Lane, Ruckle Heritage Farm

Abey and Matt Scaglione and sons, Ruckle Heritage Farm

the late Gwen Ruckle

Will Gerlach

Lotte Kristensen (Denmark)

the late Mac Rymal

Dr. Leila Kulpas

Karin (Marita) Jones

The Kuisma family (Finland)

Wendy and Derrick Milton

Gail Sjuberg

Tom and Linda James

Gwen Litchfield

Lisa Wolfe

Karen McDiarmid

Sharon Bailey and Robert McTavish

Tom Walker

Suzanne Archer

 the late Tom Martin

Jack Woodward (KC)

Len Brown

Paul Stewart

Rob Scheres

Bruce Wood

the late Bruce Creswick

Thorsten Baumeister (New Zealand)

Rob Pingle

Keith Picot

Mona Fertig

Harry Burton

Rachel Vadeboncoeur

Gillean Proctor

Lisa Lloyd

Amy Melious

Michela Sorrentino

Jan Smith

Wesley Clark

Eric McLay

Dave French and Kelly Waters

the late Marjorie Martin

the late Margaret Haines

Jaqueline Landeen and Pacino

Palu Rainbow Song

Murray a.k.a. as The Man with the Can

the late Thomas Ayers, Grade 5 teacher

Sheila Price, Grade 7 teacher

Lorne Tippett

Phyllis Haruko (Oikawa) Vavra

the late Tomoko (Toni) Oikawa

Lorna Cammaert

Richard Shanks

Neil and Beth England

Mrs. Larkin, New Westminster piano teacher from my childhood

the late Jean and James Campbell of Saturna Island

the late James Cameron Mavor 

the late Irene Johanna (Bedwell) Mavor

my late sister, Heather (Mavor) Carruthers

plus, a few name changes for real people

and me of course!

P.S. While focused on the writing, I hadn't realize how many people in the book have now departed this earthly realm. They are still very much alive in my memories.

Available only on Amazon 

https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1778354262

 

Memoir akin to therapy

Writing a memoir is a bit like therapy, except you have to decipher the meanings of experiences and thoughts and feelings all by yourself.

Just like in life when you wake up one day and think, MMM? I'm not so sure this is working and you take the leap to try therapy, it can be the same for memoir writing. You write stuff down, and then it's best to let it sit a day or two and you go back to it and then think, no, that's not what I meant to say. That sounds strange. There's more there. Try again. In the end, there may not be enough time in your lifetime to get it onto the page how you ultimately and ideally wished for. But it's the process that matters.

I'm not claiming I managed to finally get at the core of it in my soon to be released memoir about my time on Salt Spring, At One with an Island: Salt Spring Revisited, but towards the end, I was feeling as if I was getting a sense of that peeling the layers of an onion experience to a much greater degree than when I started.

Instead of just retelling an experience from Point A to Point B, there was a lot more questioning about the journey. Like why is Salt Spring so important to me? Why is Ruckle Park so significant to me? What about consistency of place now matters to me and why? 

I know that some say to write an interesting memoir, you have to touch upon the universal within your particular story. That may be one of the biggest challenges. Why should anyone care about your story at all? Well, they won't. Unless you can find a way to attach to something they might also be experiencing or have experienced, to unearth some nugget of universal truth; to provide some insight.

For the longest time, I used to hang on every word that successful writers shared about their writing process. In the past few years I've stopped doing that. 

It makes sense to just accept that you are truly on your own unique journey, no matter how many hangers-on you may or may not have along for the ride. Their journey is not yours. Other writers will undoubtedly have some nuggets of wisdom to share, but in the end, it's that unique understanding of your own inner world and your own personal history, finding courage, and exploiting the version that is yours and yours alone that you must get at to tell your own story.

And then, let the consequences fall where they may.

At One with an Island - Salt Spring Revisited

I never intended to write a memoir, At One with an Island, Salt Spring Revisited, about  my time on Salt Spring Island. I mean what hasn't already been said? 

Salt Spring is one of the southern Gulf Islands in British Columbia, 35 minutes by a BC Ferry from Victoria, B.C. 

Too many years ago between not intending to write the  book and finally finishing it, (which took me forever),  I took a course at SFU's Writer's Studio program, and then another one, and I needed to write SOMETHING back then.

The first thing that came to mind then, because I'd just returned from living on the island, was to try and capture some of my island experiences. 

Then, to frame why the island has meant so much to me, I felt I had to backtrack. I had to explain some of the life stuff that had really impacted me to put me in the mindset of mid-life escape, not that it ever takes much to get me into that "escape" mindset.  

I first set foot on the island and Ruckle Provincial Park  and Ruckle Farm more than 30 years ago and my many "revisitings" have been some of the happiest times of my life. So I set out writing about some of my experiences, and some of the people I encountered while living there.

It gives me a lot of pleasure to re-read these experiences and revisit that time. I wrote it mainly for myself, to have a tangible legacy of that time in my life.

It's scary to put a book out there about a real place and real people, even if some of their names have been changed.

I thought about it for a long time, too long for sure. Gave up, went back to it and finally finished it a few months ago.

If all goes well, it will be available through Amazon.ca books one week from this posting, beginning Sept. 17, 2024 at 5pm Pacific Daylight Time.

Feel free to buy it. Because you're curious, because you're a mid-life female looking to shake things up in your own life and want to read about someone else's experience, or because you might even be in it!

https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1778354262

Life and Death and the Leviathan II

Image by Jim Munnelly 

There but for the grace of God go any one of us.

Maybe that’s what you thought as well upon hearing the news of the capsized whale watching boat, the Leviathan II, off Tofino, B.C., and the death of six tourists.

I looked up Leviathan. It's a word from the Old Testament meaning sea creature or sea monster.

There were 21 survivors thanks in huge part to those who have called the coast home for centuries. In this case,  the Ahousaht, their livelihoods and histories on the ocean intertwined. As we now know, two Ahousaht fishermen were first on scene, primed perhaps from a history of trauma and subsequent crisis assimilation; fight or flight, always at the ready.

One of the fishermen, turned, saw a flare, knew right away, and headed towards the Leviathan II. The response similar to the way their brothers (and sisters?) took to the waters of Hartley Bay after the MV Queen of the North accident in 2006. And probably during so many other lesser marine crises that never warrant publicity, lingering only in the minds of the few involved.

Every time you and I have gone on vacation, we have been those individuals. Whether close to home or on a far flung adventure, we trusted that everything wasn’t just going to be okay, it was going to be fantastic. Our expectations were the very best of what we packed.

It was me every time I stepped onto the whale watching zodiac on Salt Spring on more than a few occasions with the former owner, Ian Gidney, at the helm. I totally trusted that we were in good hands. After all, he'd done it for such a long time, handling that zodiac like a jeep on water, even on that day it felt like we were re-enacting  a new version of that movie, Thelma and Louise, but on water.

He just kept going and going, south and farther south still. Like a man with OCD, he was going to find us whales, no matter how long it took. And he did. Freighters passing not too far away in a shipping lane.

Add to that, all those other times in a kayak, even though I've never been properly trained, can't do an Eskimo Roll, and have no real idea how I’d react to being tipped over.

The very first time, a sunset cruise out of Ganges Harbour, circa 1996.  A summer evening, a little cloudy, a little windy, but nothing to get too worked up about, until that is, the grey turned charcoal, the cloud cover bowed like a geisha, the wind pitched like a cyclone, and every stroke became agony.

"Stick together," yelled the guide, the quiver in his voice its own soundwave, trying, unsuccessfully to hide his anxiety, screaming into the wind, his yells translating into a kite of a whisper, "Turn around, stick together!" 

Our individual wills focused on the brown spec of a wharf we'd launched off less than an hour before. When we finally made it back, exhaling our long-held breaths, too tired to haul ourselves onto that rough old dock, and just relief, that's all.

Or on another kayak trip. Discovery Islands group. Last day of the trip. A large wave caught my kayak from behind and carried me a long ways from the group. It looked as if I was intentionally surfing, another guide’s voice yelling my name, thinking I might be going all rogue on him on purpose. As if! 

Or further afield, giving my safety some thought, but not much, hoping for the best, donning invincible tourist mode and stepping onto a patch-worked riverboat in Cambodia with barely a lawnmower engine  to steer us down that shallow river from Lampang into the Tonle Sap. 

Or that beautiful day out of Sihanoukville, heading for the small island Koh Ta Kiev, with stops for snorkeling into the sea blue waters in a place that was all the better because of its foreignness, any potential danger someone else's concern. "Don't worry. You worry too much."

And finally, my own experience on a whale watching expedition out of Tofino so long ago. Thousands upon thousands before us over the years with the same excitement at what we all might get to see. That same feeling there for those six tourists looking forward to a great day and real live orcas not too far away.

A trip similar to one that so many domestic and international tourists alike have taken out of that picturesque West Coast village. The scramble, pulling, and shimmying into the survival suits before finding a place in a zodiac, hip to hip.  

We sat huddled together as the little rubber vessel bucked its way, headstrong, out across that black, frigid ocean. The slab of barnacled backs of the Grays that we'd come to spot, not quite real but too close and scary to me; living submarines. 

And the cold, mostly the cold, that's what I still recall. Wanting to verbalize what every goose bump on my body was screaming which was, "I've had enough now. Can we turn around now?"

Each and every one of us on every journey we take, with hope the best thing we pack.  Hope that there but for the grace of God comes true for us just one more time, rising inside to save us, because we choose to participate, not just observe, at least not all of the time.

True for boat people, and true, shockingly, for those six individuals who lost their lives in such an unlikely way in such a safe (relatively speaking) part of the world on October 25, 2015, in a place of hauntingly wild beauty.

So not fair indeed.

Out of respect for the people who lost their lives, I list their names:

• 
  
• Katie Taylor, 29, of Whistler, B.C.
• Jack Slater, 76, of Toronto.
• Nigel Francis Hooker, 63, of Southampton, U.K.
• David Wyndham Thomas, 50, of Swindon, U.K.
• Stephen David Thomas, 18, also of Swindon, son of David Thomas.
• and Ravisham Pillay, 27, from Australia (still missing).

Stowel Lake

Stowel Lake 

Down a seam in a dusty track

cars lining the road above,

you wade in,

separate the lily pads with

your praying clasp,

emerald ripples  

bloat,

encase naked white skin 

over there,

thick atop a wooden dock, 

decorated by

dragonflys and voices weaving the

gloaming.

Ron Holcroft's Walker's Hook Stage

Ronald S. Holcroft   

November 15, 1916 – August 4, 2015

When I lived on Salt Spring and in the North End after my third move in same number of years to the property of Marjorie Martin, I lived in the sturdy cottage that her father had built with her grandfather more than 50 years earlier.  Most days I’d take a stroll down what I consider to be one of the most beautiful roads on the island: Walker’s Hook Road.

My walk would extend from Hedger Road from where my little cabin was located, down Walker’s Hook to the Fernwood Road Café.

My jaunt always included a trip down to the end of the Fernwood dock to check for otters, inhale the sea air, see if anyone was crabbing, chat with visitors who I might happen upon (and often did) and look to the south to see if I might spot a ferry crossing in the distance towards Swartz Bay. It often included a meander along the beach to take photos of shells and whatever intrigued me.

It was such a breath of fresh air, literally, given that the road parallels narrow Trincomali Channel that separates Salt Spring from Galiano and named after a great sailing ship, the HCS Trincomali, built, if you can believe it, shortly after the Napoleanic wars, and now a restored ship in Hartlepool England if Wikipedia has it right.

One day as I was walking back, I saw a man coming towards me in the distance, looking as if he’d just stepped off a stage in Stratford, or perhaps to use an even more Canadian example, as if he was one of the characters in Stephen Leacock’s famous town of Mariposa.

He was elderly and he was dapper. He walked slowly but purposefully and his cane tapped the road and steadied him. He had on the kind of ascot cap that my own father used to wear on his daily walks, the kind many males from “the old country” don. He was wearing a tie and jacket. He seemed unusually put together for island life. But what really stood out was his mustache and his eyebrows both adorning his face (and hiding it) by impressive  lengthy wisps of white hair. His blue eyes were watery with age. He was the perfect subject for a watercolour painting. His feet sported black brogues, the kind my own grandfather, who lived to be 99, wore every day of his life.

I said hello, chatted about nothing for a bit, and then before he could get away, so taken by his appearance I was, I asked him if he’d mind if I took his photo. “You have such a great face,” I said. How could he resist?  Our interaction must have been no more than five minutes but he stuck with me as those who seem a bit extraordinary do.

A year later or thereabouts, I moved off Salt Spring. I put his photo in my online portfolio. I didn’t think much of it but I would look at that face from time to time and smile, and remember our short meeting.

A few years ago, his daughter, Anne Weerstra, contacted me for the photo. I forget how she came upon it or why specifically she wanted it. And then on August 4, 2015, I got an e-mail from her again, late that evening.

Hello Gayle,

A while ago I contacted you to ask for a copy of the photo of my father, Ron Holcroft “94 years strong”, and very much appreciated the positive response. I’m sorry to tell you now that my dad died this morning, almost 3 months shy of his 99th birthday. Your photo shows him as so many would remember him. I wondered if you would let us use it in the obituary…

Of course my answer was yes.

I’m looking forward to reading that obituary. I want to know a little more about the long life Ron Holcroft lived

Sweet surprises on my fair Isle

Wow! It has been a long time since I've updated the old Spirit of Salt Spring blog. But if it's any consolation, it has only been a week or two since I last visited the fairest isle of them all.

I showed up at Ruckle Provincial Park at the end of August at about 3 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. I'd brought my new tent. In fact, it was still in the box. I'd snagged a three-person Coleman at Army & Navy for a mere $69.99 the week before. That's how long it had been since I'd been camping. I didn't even own a tent. I had my sleeping bag, my cooler stocked with Stagg chili and other fine delicacies including some dark coconut porter from Maui. I had my little rock climbing stove perfect for cooking on, and I was beyond happy to be outside and to be there.

As I pulled into the parking area in the campsite, in spite of cars being splayed every which way along the dirt ring road, I managed to park the car right near the wheelbarrows, close to the trail. I threw my stuff into the closest yellow wheelbarrow, all the while recognizing the urgency of laying claim to a spot. It was busier than I'd ever seen it. I needed to stake a claim on my territory. Hurry up! I could feel the urgency.

I was pushing my wheelbarrow full of stuff as if I'd found the Motherload of ultimate Chanterelles and as I passed a ranger, she pointed me in the direction of one of only three spots left. What? Only three spots left and I got one? Fantastic! I'm walking up to my spot and this young guy, camped at the next site, appearing to be alone, comes up to me and offers to lend me a hand.

"No. Nope. I'm fine. Thanks but I'm good." 

There's that pesky, indomitable, I can do it, I am woman, I am an island unto myself hear me roar idiocy raising its clueless head. As the words leave my lips, and I'm staring into his very pleasant young face, I'm thinking, he's male, that's what they do, they like to feel useful, to feel needed, remember?  Do you recall nothing from the manual?

I look over at him. Oh, I think, maybe I've hurt his feelings. Oh well. So, I'm a slow learner.
I start whipping things out of two big blue Ikea bags that I've carried all my stuff in, and he shows up again.
"I can help you with the tent," he says like a Golden Retriever waiting for me to toss a ball.
This time I've got the correct response at the ready.
"Sure, why not. That would be great. I just bought the thing. I've never put it up. It's not even out of the box. I hope to god it's not missing a pole or something. Go to it."

We work together. I learn his name is Marwan. He takes out his big huge knife that doubles as a couple of other things and rips the box open in a split second. Together we get it up in no time because even a three year old could put this thing up, and my new home is ready for sweet dreams later that evening.

Now, can I just say that this is so Salt Spring and me. Whenever I'm there, things just seem to work out. I almost take it for granted now. It's as if I'm thinking to myself, of course some cute young thing will be there at the other end to help me put up my tent. Why wouldn't he? Now, let's be clear, this type of thing is so far from my city reality, it makes me feel like I'm not just a ferry ride away, I'm on another planet. Young guys do not come up to me in the city offering anything. Not drugs, not sex, not even directions.

I find out all sorts of things about my helpful neighbor. He's only 19. He doesn't like being stuck out at Ruckle with nothing going on. 

"That's the whole point," I say, cheerfully, as if I'm his mother. I find out he's from Libya. I mean are you kidding me? A Libyan is camping on Salt Spring right next to me. And, then he tells me he's been in Canada for about a year. First he says Vancouver and then that switches to Victoria. I note that and let it slide, although I do feel, after that, that I'm beginning to do some sort of racial profiling on him and even though I feel a bit guilty about that, I realize that in these times, it's inevitable. Especially when the story changes.

Our conversation is easy. With the tent up, its time to eat. "I have some vegetarian chili," I say. 

He turns his nose up at that.
"No meat?" he says with such disappointment.
"I have some rice," he says. "Out of a package. I've been eating it for a month."
I learn he's been travelling around. The Rockies and other parts of Vancouver Island.
"Come over when you're ready, if you want. We can have dinner together," I say.

He goes off to pray or send encrypted text messages to the enemy.
I continue to prepare my fresh air domicile as if I've just returned from Pottery Barn.

We seem to have lots to talk about at dinner. I'm delighted to have company.

We are joined later that night by a guy who picked my new friend up as he was walking towards Ruckle with a huge pack. The good Samaritan has a Ph.D. in American literature and he's getting away from the city prior to returning to a classroom and the responsibilities of college teaching. We sit around at dusk, Marwan and I, and Simon, the guy who has written a book on prison writing based on his research and experiences in some maximum security prison in New York state. Conversation meandered as darkness blanketed the campsite. What a motley little crew we made. And what a fantastic beginning to my little trip.

The next morning, I dropped my new Libyan friend at the Fulford ferry and backtracked to meet Gail, at KiZMit, the coolest coffee place on island that you really must go to if you have never been, and especially if you're in the south end. This photo below doesn't really do it justice. Get coffee and goodies there if you can, even though it's only open 11 a.m.  to 4 p.m. (in the summer) I suppose.

After that, I keep moving. I drive into town and attend a workshop on writing and getting grant money. Later that night, I hang outside the Treehouse Cafe to take in a bit of Tom Hooper and his family. He's playing with his wife, Suzanne Little, and their two sons. How cool must that be to have your whole family on stage?

The next day I conduct three interviews. I meet up with a jewelry artist at her fabulous ocean-side studio for a future Aqua feature. I meet up with photographer John Cameron and then a realtor for separate, upcoming magazine features. Its always so enlightening to get a glimpse into other people's livelihoods.

After that, I wrap it up by accompanying Gail and Chloe to a wonderful community concert in what's called the South End Groove yard. We're in the backyard of a man named David who has turned his garage into a performance space so he can curate and invite the kind of musicians he loves to hear. He then shares that talent with whoever wants to come for a reasonable price ($20).  All the ticket sales go to the musicians. We listened to the Bluegrass pickings from a talented duo named Cahalen Morrison and Eli West from Seattle.

It was a great visit and just in time to make sure I could get my island fix prior to a busy fall.

You won't want to miss the fabulous Pride Parade, The Fall Fair and Sip and Savour weekend. Don't forget, as well, the Heritage Apple Festival.

September is one of the busiest months on the island and in my books it's one of the very best times to plan a visit.

The reflections at this time of year are as colourful as some of the island's characters.