Galiano

Time has changed back to where it is supposed to be – officially, in any case, though I can’t see any reason why it should. It is 5:30 pm. The black tops of the spruce trees visible from my window are sharply outlined against the last faint tangerine hue in a rapidly darkening sky. November, time of long nights and quiet days, has begun. All day snowflakes danced in the breeze, and the bird feeder, put up only yesterday, is again the popular meeting place for chickadees, blue jays and woodpeckers. ‘Back to normal’, some will say, and indeed it is time for all of this now, the year slowly winding down. While I lament the time change, much more appreciative of the hour of daylight at the end of the day instead of its beginning, I have no issue with the declining light itself.

It was a wonderful, long autumn here this year, one of the longest I remember, and since this is my favourite season I once again decided to prolong it a bit more by spending some time on the west coast. This time my destination was Galiano Island.  I had never been there before and had chosen it on the recommendation of a friend who lives on the west coast. What would I find there? Would it be able to satisfy my longing for ocean, forest and solitude?

Galiano … when I set out on my journey I didn’t know much more about it than its lovely name, round and warm on the tongue, the Spanish word so seemingly foreign in these northern waters, named after the Spanish explorer Dionisio Alcalá-Galiano who explored and mapped the area at the end of the 18^th century. I knew it was the first ferry stop in the Southern Gulf Islands coming from Vancouver, and that it was long and narrow. Beyond that I knew very little.

I set out from Vancouver on Monday morning, making use of its excellent transit system by taking first the sky train, then the bus to Tsawwassen ferry terminal. After barely an hour on the ferry, most of it spent outside since it was such a beautiful sunny and warm day, I set foot on Galiano Island. Since I didn’t have a vehicle I had prearranged to be picked up at Sturdies Bay terminal; the three kilometre walk would have been a bit awkward with a duffle bag on wheels and shopping bags with groceries for the week, picked up at the ‘Galiano Garage’.

And then, once I had settled in at my little cabin, time ceased to matter. For one whole week my days were spent either at the beach and in the forest or writing and reading at the table by the window of the cabin. From there, I could see the ferry passing by on its way to the other gulf islands: enough leaves had fallen to allow a glimpse of the water through the trees.

How, when we set out on a journey, places are just names, strangers to us, and we to them, skeletons without features. And how, after spending some time with them, they are fleshed out and become etched into our memories, some so deeply that we can never forget the quality of light on a late autumn afternoon, the soft, moist cover of moss on the leeward side of a tree, the bright tinkling of shell shards stirred by the waves. It doesn’t happen everywhere, of course, but when it does we know that we have found another little piece of our home here on this beautiful earth. Sometimes, finding this comes as a surprise, a place at first sight unlikely to make me feel that way, at other times it is anticipated. Forest, ocean and solitude are important ingredients for me, so Galiano had a good chance of becoming one of the places where I would feel at home.

 

I set out to explore the beach accesses – three of them in easy walking distance – the first evening. Bellhouse Park, two thirds of the way back to the ferry terminal, is one of the best known spots on the island, a small provincial park with a view of neighbouring Mayne Island and Active Pass. The path down to the beach leads through Garry oak and arbutus trees across smooth rock bulging up from the water like whales’ backs. Wind and ocean sculpted these lime stones into interesting formations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Matthew’s Point, my favourite beach, however, was even closer, yet felt more remote, at least at this time of year when hardly any tourists are around. Only about five minutes up the road a small sign simply said ‘Beach Access’ to indicate the start of a narrow foot path. Entering the dark forest I almost immediately passed by a cluster of cedar trees bent outward not far from their base; to me, it looked like arms opened to a welcoming embrace. Douglas firs and cedars continued for a while, interspersed from time to time with some knobby maple trunks, huge, sail-like leaves a soggy carpet at their feet. After a few hundred metres the trees moved further apart, and suddenly I could see the water far below. A sign warned of a very steep decline, and the path turned sharply downhill, switchbacking through loose stands of trees. For the last hundred metres or so a thick rope provided extra support if necessary, but the ground was dry and sandy and even on the only rainy day I experienced it was not really slippery.

 

To step out onto the stretch of beach I entered now was like stepping into a little paradise. To my right, it stretched for maybe a quarter of a mile, but only about fifty metres to the left, with two high cliffs standing guard on either end. The south facing beach, comprised for the most part of small pebbles with only a few sandy areas, was thus well sheltered from the elements. The quiet waters of Active Pass separate it from nearby Mayne Island. It looks just a stone throw away, but when I saw two big BC ferries pass each other in the deep channel closer to Mayne I realized that the distance must be bigger than I thought. More than once I watched this, one ferry on its way to Vancouver Island or maybe Saltspring, the other heading for Tsawwassen. The deep, mournful sound of the horns – interestingly not all having the same pitch – echoed in the narrow channel, resonating in my body like the vibrations of a singing bowl. From time to time a float plane passed overhead, but much of the time it was quiet.

Gulls wheeled in the distance, their light coloured bodies against the dark green  of the forest swirling in a funnel like leaves caught by a gust of wind. Ravens flying by gnarled at each other in monosyllabic conversation, and once or twice two bald eagles circled briefly above the trees. A seal swam close to the shore, its curiosity driving it closer and closer to where I was sitting before it quickly dropped below the surface without a sound. Then, suddenly, a strange recurring snorting in the middle of the channel, followed by a splash: a sea lion swimming lengths, it seemed, since it came back along the same path a while later.

 

I ate my lunch – usually an apple and a piece of chocolate – comfortably perched on a thick, smooth driftwood trunk and took it all in, lulled by the whisper of the waves. Only in the wake of the ferry the sea got a bit excited, the waves suddenly audible, twisting along the pebbled shore, lapping a bit closer to my feet. After a few minutes the surface was again untroubled, gleaming in the midday sun like hammered silver.

 

 

 

My longing for the ocean thus fulfilled, I’d gather notebook and pencil, slip on the backpack and slowly climb back up the hill, turning from time to time to gaze out through the trees at the water until, once again, the forest took me in completely. Once at the road I then turned left, further up the hill, to explore more of the island’s forested walking paths. Most of the time they led me up to Bluff Park, Galiano’s oldest park, established in 1948.

 

 It was Halloween when I first found my way there. I felt I was entering a fairy tale forest, huge, ancient maples moss-hung, ferns growing along their ridged flanks, the green twilight only rarely lit up by the yellow flares of leaves still clinging to branches, as surprising in their intensity as if the sun had suddenly found an opening in the dense canopy. Entranced, I listened for the sounds of this place: the faint rustle of the tree tops in a wind I could not feel so far below, the soft thud of leaves settling on the forest floor after floating down slowly, the almost imperceptible hiss of the fine drizzle.

 

Climbing higher, the path led out into the open along the edge of the cliff, right up to a point that allowed a beautiful view of Active Pass and the nearby islands.

 

Standing in the shelter of one of the long-limbed spruce trees I watched the light seep out from a bank of clouds and spread over the distant hills, shifting on the water, picking out currents before abandoning them again, like northern lights playing in the misty ocean air, and I, too, like water and hills, felt the touch of that light.