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.

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.

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.

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.

Love and Hate and Geography

I left Salt Spring a little more than a year ago. I packed up my stuff and left behind the panic that was rising inside me as another winter of being in a 450 sq. ft. cabin, alone, as the rain dropped ceaselessly, and the quiet closed in even more densely than the grey-white fog, descended.

I appreciated all that I'd learned from negotiating being on my own. But then again, I was always pretty good at that, I thought, until I reached the limit on Salt Spring, last year, at the end of October. I couldn't wait to get off the island. It wouldn't have mattered one bit to me if someone had screamed, "Don't let the ferry guardrail bump your bum on the way off" when I left more than ready.

If you live on an island, you probably have your own experience of how a confined geography can shape psychological space as well.

So, now, a little more than a year later, as I think about a friend who feels the same way and can't wait to leave an island that is her home, I can't help but think about how that's the way life is: cyclical. What attracts, repels, sometimes creeping up on us by surprise. And, when it strikes, somehow we're both surprised and have been expecting it.  If we listen to our feelings, regardless of how ugly they may be, we will eventually find our way back to what attracted us if we were truly in love in the first place.

I'm about to visit Salt Spring for a week-long visit next week, and now, I can't wait to return for a short visit.

I will visit Ruckle Park to make sure that I get the feelings right about that place as I'm about to write about it. That park is the reason I fell in love with the island so many years ago. I fell in love with the forest, the beach, the owls in the trees, the ewes and the turkeys, the light that bathes everything golden on an August morning, the auburn tree bark, the Ruckle Barn and heritage houses and the stillness of a full moon glimmering across the blue-black waves.

And, when I say that I think, well, isn't life just like that. The things we love, we can sometimes no longer bear. We do love our partner, really we do, but sometimes we can't bear them even one more minute, being in their presence, watching them chew their food.

We do love our job but we are sick to death of having to get up every morning and have to go to it and be around people that we have to because that's why they call it work, it comes with confines.

We do love our kids but sometimes, there's no way around it, they are a pain in the butt.

We do love our friends but sometimes we must keep them at arms-length for a while until the magic that first happened can, hopefully, be found again. Abracadabra.

And, when I find myself in that space, I always hear one of my favourite sayings: When the boat reaches the pier, everything will go straight.

Do you have a place that you consider your touchstone? If so, why?