A few weeks ago I got a call from a friend. Her husband was going to be gone for a weekend so I should come and visit. Not that her husband dislikes me, just that she wanted some company. After locating a cheap plane ticket, and making a rare spontaneous decision in my well planned out life, I found myself spending last weekend in Long Beach, CA.
The traveling portion was far more eventful than it should have been. I hopped on the Max to head to the airport with a friend from work, who was also PDX bound. He was going to run a marathon, I was going for a girls weekend where we did nothing but eat carbs and chocolate. Amazingly enough, of all the Max trains headed to PDX, I found myself also riding to the airport with a couple who I’d met a few times previously through the friend I was going to visit. This turned out to be quite significant; as it was at this point I realized I had no cell phone. I still can’t find my cell phone and have dug one out of my junk drawer from a few years ago since returning. Again, it was amazing that these people were on my same train, because as my work friend was calling people at work asking people there to look for my phone, these friends could call our mutual friend and explain that I didn’t have a phone. It was also at this time that I realized the only phone number I knew by heart anymore is my parent’s home phone. Which wasn’t going to help at all.
Thankfully, after receiving a weird message from me, via this other couples phone, and them also saying hi on the message, I made it to Long Beach and found Robyn and the kidlets waiting for me. Upon entering the car, after a chorus of “Hi Auntie Heidi!” Laina hollered for her mom to turn the CD to #10. Which happens to be my favorite Lady Gaga song, “Boys, Boys, Boys.” She’d remembered from the last time I’d seen her. That is one of those nice surprises from kids that make you feel special.
The next morning, promptly at 7am, the kids sprinted into the room I was sleeping in. After a brief conversation, they got to the heart of the matter, “Auntie Heidi, can we please play your iPod?” They then proceeded to take turns playing nicely on the foot of my bed while I went back to sleep. To be clear, they aren’t technically a niece and nephew, but my brother isn’t in any hurry to give me any so I had to adopt some. For breakfast we had my favorite treat when visiting this family . . . sticky buns. Apparently earlier in the week Caden had been quite concerned that I was coming and they didn’t have the ingredients for sticky buns. As always they were a delicious treat. Both mornings.
We spent the morning puttering around a crazy cheap fabric shop that had almost no fabric but lots of crafts in a scary section of Long Beach. Laina and I found matching tiara’s. And proceeded to wear them for the rest of the morning, including during a trip to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch. I felt a little self conscious about running around So Cal with a tiara on my head, but half the workers at the restaurant told me how they liked my tiara and how cute it was that we matched. Note to self, if I’m ever feeling like I need a tiara day, do it with a kid. Apparently that makes it un-weird.
At every possible opportunity, Laina wants to play cars. She treats them like other little girls treat barbies. They go places, have conversations, etc. I always get to be the little green VW bug. It’s super cute and apparently the prized car, as no one else but me ever gets to be the green bug. If only showing someone you heart them was as simple for the rest of life as it is when you’re four.
The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of playing, reading books, playing cars, singing along to Lada Gaga in the car, being crafty, riding bikes and eating junk. It was as mellow and relaxing as being at home, minus the part where the kids pounced on me every time I had to rest my eyes for a few minutes. Kids are exhausting! It was a short, but fun and productive trip. Next time, I’m staying long enough to hit Disneyland.
July 27, 2010
July 22, 2010
The "Mournal"
In history classes from junior high, I remember learning about Native American boys who would go on a vision quest as part of their turning into a man. I have a guy friend who is currently doing the same thing. Only instead of walking into the wilderness and starving until he starts to hallucinate, his learning about his inner self is coming in the form of journaling. Or as I like to call it, “The Mournal.” It’s like a journal, but for men.
This guy friend thought he had found the girl he was going to marry. After a period of dating with enough drama to be worthy of a soap opera storyline, they split up. Breakups usually take two people, and he admits to his part in it, but months later he finds out she was a terrible person (I’m passing judgment because I’m friends with him, not her). More so than originally thought and definitely more so than he was. Since then, he’s been trying to find himself. I’m not sure he’d use those exact words, but he’s taking to carrying around a journal to jot down his thoughts and posting supposedly enlightening quotes on his Facebook page.
A couple girl friends and I were talking about men journaling. Apparently one friend’s husband also journals. Since I know now two men, and zero women, who journal, I’ve officially coined the phrase “mournal.” I wasn’t so surprised at the fact that men wanted to write down their thoughts as the idea that they had thoughts to begin with. And ones that were worth writing down.
I’m listening to a book on tape right now by Dave Barry, who I think is hilarious. The book is “The Complete Guide to Guys.” For clarification, I downloaded it onto my iPod because it was the only interesting one that was available for checkout. According to Dave Barry, and most of my guy friends, the bulk of their thoughts are comprised about sports and sex. I’m curious if I was to open a mournal, is it just pages of thoughts about sports and sex? Or would there actually be profound thoughts in there? Do their entries start with “Dear Diary,” the way a 10-year old girls would? The mournal is shrouded in mystery.
As my girl friends and I were laughing about the men journaling, I had a sudden thought. Does a blog count as a journal? Had I succumbed to this journaling trend without realizing it? I didn’t want to be known as a journaler. I couldn’t even keep a diary at the age of 10. My friend’s husband who journals said this totally counts as journaling. His wife disagreed for the following reasons a) my blogs apparently tend to tell stories and not my innermost thoughts and b) apparently they’re funny. My blogs do to tend to stray towards the more obscure thoughts running through my head and rarely dig into anything too serious. Plus, I put it out there for everyone to read. That has to be the complete opposite of journaling.
Are there more guys out there who mournal? I find myself intrigued. Not only by the concept of mournaling, but what can possibly be written in those things? Someday I really hope to find out. I think.
This guy friend thought he had found the girl he was going to marry. After a period of dating with enough drama to be worthy of a soap opera storyline, they split up. Breakups usually take two people, and he admits to his part in it, but months later he finds out she was a terrible person (I’m passing judgment because I’m friends with him, not her). More so than originally thought and definitely more so than he was. Since then, he’s been trying to find himself. I’m not sure he’d use those exact words, but he’s taking to carrying around a journal to jot down his thoughts and posting supposedly enlightening quotes on his Facebook page.
A couple girl friends and I were talking about men journaling. Apparently one friend’s husband also journals. Since I know now two men, and zero women, who journal, I’ve officially coined the phrase “mournal.” I wasn’t so surprised at the fact that men wanted to write down their thoughts as the idea that they had thoughts to begin with. And ones that were worth writing down.
I’m listening to a book on tape right now by Dave Barry, who I think is hilarious. The book is “The Complete Guide to Guys.” For clarification, I downloaded it onto my iPod because it was the only interesting one that was available for checkout. According to Dave Barry, and most of my guy friends, the bulk of their thoughts are comprised about sports and sex. I’m curious if I was to open a mournal, is it just pages of thoughts about sports and sex? Or would there actually be profound thoughts in there? Do their entries start with “Dear Diary,” the way a 10-year old girls would? The mournal is shrouded in mystery.
As my girl friends and I were laughing about the men journaling, I had a sudden thought. Does a blog count as a journal? Had I succumbed to this journaling trend without realizing it? I didn’t want to be known as a journaler. I couldn’t even keep a diary at the age of 10. My friend’s husband who journals said this totally counts as journaling. His wife disagreed for the following reasons a) my blogs apparently tend to tell stories and not my innermost thoughts and b) apparently they’re funny. My blogs do to tend to stray towards the more obscure thoughts running through my head and rarely dig into anything too serious. Plus, I put it out there for everyone to read. That has to be the complete opposite of journaling.
Are there more guys out there who mournal? I find myself intrigued. Not only by the concept of mournaling, but what can possibly be written in those things? Someday I really hope to find out. I think.
Where Is The Line?
My brother is what I like to refer to as “charmingly cocky.” He’s pretty self assured about his place in life and not afraid to tell you how awesome (he thinks) he is. For the most part, I find him amusing, or charmingly cocky if you will. Maybe because I do the same thing but to a lesser degree. Anyway, having known a few people who have transitioned from charming, to cocky, to arrogant to arrogant prick, every so often I warn him that there is a fine line between charmingly cocky and arrogant. And girls are less inclined to put up with the arrogant. His response was “Heidi, there is a fine line between arrogance and excellence . . . and I walk it every day.”
While I was running the other day, trying to increase my mileage and speed in hotter weather, I was thinking about lines. Mostly because around mile 4, I was starting to feel like I was going to throw up. Turns out, there is a fine line between pushing yourself and throwing up. I’ve always managed to stay on the pushing yourself side of the line, but I never feel well after.
Why bother to push myself so much? Besides the fact that I’m most competitive when competing against myself? Because Hood to Coast, the 197 mile relay race that I always talk myself into doing, is a mere five weeks away. And I just found out that I have legs longer than I normally run. Which means its time to start gutting out some more painful distances.
Don’t get me wrong, I love HTC. It’s an amazing experience, the people involved are fantastic and its interesting to see what your body can do under unusual conditions. Like running on no sleep after being crammed into a van with five other sweaty people for thirty hours. None the less, I’m starting to feel a bit of panic as I have to eek out a few extra miles than my normal runs. It’ll come together, it always does, but a little fear or panic should go a long way in motivating me to train harder.
And the training isn’t too bad. I enjoy running. It’s me out there with only my iPod and my own thoughts for company. Actually, I come up with my best ideas for blogs while running. While worrying about whether or not I’m going to be ill because I’m pushing myself too much. Here’s hoping that in the next five weeks I stay on the pushing myself side of the line.
While I was running the other day, trying to increase my mileage and speed in hotter weather, I was thinking about lines. Mostly because around mile 4, I was starting to feel like I was going to throw up. Turns out, there is a fine line between pushing yourself and throwing up. I’ve always managed to stay on the pushing yourself side of the line, but I never feel well after.
Why bother to push myself so much? Besides the fact that I’m most competitive when competing against myself? Because Hood to Coast, the 197 mile relay race that I always talk myself into doing, is a mere five weeks away. And I just found out that I have legs longer than I normally run. Which means its time to start gutting out some more painful distances.
Don’t get me wrong, I love HTC. It’s an amazing experience, the people involved are fantastic and its interesting to see what your body can do under unusual conditions. Like running on no sleep after being crammed into a van with five other sweaty people for thirty hours. None the less, I’m starting to feel a bit of panic as I have to eek out a few extra miles than my normal runs. It’ll come together, it always does, but a little fear or panic should go a long way in motivating me to train harder.
And the training isn’t too bad. I enjoy running. It’s me out there with only my iPod and my own thoughts for company. Actually, I come up with my best ideas for blogs while running. While worrying about whether or not I’m going to be ill because I’m pushing myself too much. Here’s hoping that in the next five weeks I stay on the pushing myself side of the line.
July 20, 2010
Generosity
Is generosity something that you just have or is it something that can be learned? I’ve been pondering this question and all I’ve come up with is another question. How many ways are there to be generous? Time, money, skills?
I started thinking about this last Friday at happy hour. My brother was in town so I was meeting up with him and his girlfriend. When the bill came, Rob and I both grabbed for it. Courtney tried, but she was too far away. It was only after I reminded my brother that he had bought the movie tickets that he let go of the check. Neither one of use were considering letting Courtney pay. Next time perhaps.
But it got me thinking, is willingness to pick up the check a form of generosity? I know people who would split the check down to the penny to only pay what they ordered. Then there are people I work with who pay for the first $100-$200 of the bar tab when work people go out, which I consider pretty generous. Then there are the people in the middle, like my close friends, who just split the check X amount of ways. Does willingness to part with more money than you are required to make you generous? Does it matter if you do it willingly or begrudgingly?
I ask if it’s something that can be learned because generous is not an adjective I would use to describe myself. It is one that I would use to describe my mother however. And as I get older, I find myself working towards being more generous to the people in my life. And money aside, there are other ways to be generous.
While I’m slightly more willing to part with my money, despite my frugal nature, I’m less likely to part with my time. In fact, if I can buy my way out of something I don’t want to do, I’ll do it. There are certain circumstances where you suck it up and do something you don’t want to do (i.e. wedding showers, baby showers, bachelorette parties) because the other person matters. And that is one way to show them that they matter to you. But this isn’t generosity; I’m doing these things begrudgingly to show my friends that they, and the events in their life, are important. And because all these things usually have cake.
I would consider people who donate their time to be very generous. Rather than work in a soup kitchen, I’d rather throw some money at it. I do donate to select organizations that I feel strongly about, but I’m not entirely sure this is generous either. According to the dictionary, because now that I’ve thought this out to hell and back I lost track of the actual definition, generous is liberal in giving or sharing, being unselfish.
Now selfish is an adjective I would use to describe myself. Does this mean that I’m destined to be ungenerous? Or is generosity like sports? There are the kids that were born natural athletes and had the perfect jump shot in the 5th grade. Then there were the kids who received the “Ms. Hustle” awards (it’s a real thing, I swear, and have the certificate to prove it). The sport didn’t necessarily come naturally or easily but it was something they worked at. Hopefully being generous is like becoming a good free throw shooter – it just takes practice.
I started thinking about this last Friday at happy hour. My brother was in town so I was meeting up with him and his girlfriend. When the bill came, Rob and I both grabbed for it. Courtney tried, but she was too far away. It was only after I reminded my brother that he had bought the movie tickets that he let go of the check. Neither one of use were considering letting Courtney pay. Next time perhaps.
But it got me thinking, is willingness to pick up the check a form of generosity? I know people who would split the check down to the penny to only pay what they ordered. Then there are people I work with who pay for the first $100-$200 of the bar tab when work people go out, which I consider pretty generous. Then there are the people in the middle, like my close friends, who just split the check X amount of ways. Does willingness to part with more money than you are required to make you generous? Does it matter if you do it willingly or begrudgingly?
I ask if it’s something that can be learned because generous is not an adjective I would use to describe myself. It is one that I would use to describe my mother however. And as I get older, I find myself working towards being more generous to the people in my life. And money aside, there are other ways to be generous.
While I’m slightly more willing to part with my money, despite my frugal nature, I’m less likely to part with my time. In fact, if I can buy my way out of something I don’t want to do, I’ll do it. There are certain circumstances where you suck it up and do something you don’t want to do (i.e. wedding showers, baby showers, bachelorette parties) because the other person matters. And that is one way to show them that they matter to you. But this isn’t generosity; I’m doing these things begrudgingly to show my friends that they, and the events in their life, are important. And because all these things usually have cake.
I would consider people who donate their time to be very generous. Rather than work in a soup kitchen, I’d rather throw some money at it. I do donate to select organizations that I feel strongly about, but I’m not entirely sure this is generous either. According to the dictionary, because now that I’ve thought this out to hell and back I lost track of the actual definition, generous is liberal in giving or sharing, being unselfish.
Now selfish is an adjective I would use to describe myself. Does this mean that I’m destined to be ungenerous? Or is generosity like sports? There are the kids that were born natural athletes and had the perfect jump shot in the 5th grade. Then there were the kids who received the “Ms. Hustle” awards (it’s a real thing, I swear, and have the certificate to prove it). The sport didn’t necessarily come naturally or easily but it was something they worked at. Hopefully being generous is like becoming a good free throw shooter – it just takes practice.
July 14, 2010
Eenie Meenie Miney Mo
I recently had a conversation with a friend about relationships. It was her birthday and she was turning 25. What was a wonderful and fun year for me was starting off a little rough for her as she was talking about her current dilemma. How do you know which guy to choose?
Now never having been in the position of having to choose between two guys, I don’t know what the answer is, but she brought up some very interesting points. Do you go with the guy that has the spark and you’re totally in love with, but that will lead to a lifestyle you don’t want (i.e. rural living)? Or do you pick the guy that you love (but aren’t in love with), who enjoys doing the same things you do, who you have tons in common with and who wants the same kind of life style? Granted neither guy is perfect, I’ve met both and am friends with one so I can say that for certain, but it’s hard not to see the appeal of both options.
When you’re a kid, you have this vision of meeting some guy, falling madly in love, and living happily ever after. Than you, Disney, for that unrealistic expectation. To the best of my knowledge, the only time that happens is in the movies or in a romance novel. And even in those instances, I’m so much of a cynic that I tell the characters of the book or movie that they’re being totally ridiculous. You don’t spend two days in the wilderness running from killers, fall in love and decide to get married as soon as the killers have been captured by the police. Those are crazy circumstances, who in their right mind wouldn’t think that maybe you should go on a date first before deciding to get married? I always want an epilogue that talks about the couple six months or a year later and what they’ve overcome and compromised on to make things work. But that would take some of the romance out of the romance novel. And clearly I’m still a sucker for the falling in love crap or I wouldn’t keep reading the darn things.
To date, I haven’t had that head over heels in love experience. Maybe it’s like that religious ah-ha moment that seems to elude me as well. It’s out there for some, but not all people. So based on that, the idea of picking a person based on compatibility and love, but not necessarily fireworks, makes sense to me. Or maybe I’m just too cynical for my own good.
The conversation with my friend was followed up by a conversation between my female relatives. They were talking about how they didn’t know where they were going to end up living when they picked the guy. This coming mostly from the rural people. They picked the guy and then made everything else work. Years ago I asked my aunt how she knew that my uncle was the right person to marry. I’m paraphrasing here, but she essentially said that what she knew was she wanted him. So she made it happen and made it work. All these women who married the guy they wanted have all been married a long time, the aunties and my mom for over 30 years. Were there ups and downs over the years? Absolutely. But years later, they’re still making it work for them.
So apparently you can make marriage work if you choose the guy with spark, even if that means you might end up living somewhere less than ideal. So are you settling if you marry someone who comes with a sparkler instead of one of those giant mortars that light up the night sky? As someone who can easily see herself not getting married until the age of 40, there is some appeal to the sparkler that can give you life style you want and who enjoys the same activities.
From what I hear, marriage tends to be a lot of work whether you go for the big bang or compatibility. Does one make it easier than the other? I have no idea. Which means this whole blog and thought process still didn’t enlighten me with any pertinent advice for my friend. I’d like to think that a person can find both fireworks and compatibility. I’d like to think that at some point in life, we all get to experience fireworks. Or maybe I just think too much.
Now never having been in the position of having to choose between two guys, I don’t know what the answer is, but she brought up some very interesting points. Do you go with the guy that has the spark and you’re totally in love with, but that will lead to a lifestyle you don’t want (i.e. rural living)? Or do you pick the guy that you love (but aren’t in love with), who enjoys doing the same things you do, who you have tons in common with and who wants the same kind of life style? Granted neither guy is perfect, I’ve met both and am friends with one so I can say that for certain, but it’s hard not to see the appeal of both options.
When you’re a kid, you have this vision of meeting some guy, falling madly in love, and living happily ever after. Than you, Disney, for that unrealistic expectation. To the best of my knowledge, the only time that happens is in the movies or in a romance novel. And even in those instances, I’m so much of a cynic that I tell the characters of the book or movie that they’re being totally ridiculous. You don’t spend two days in the wilderness running from killers, fall in love and decide to get married as soon as the killers have been captured by the police. Those are crazy circumstances, who in their right mind wouldn’t think that maybe you should go on a date first before deciding to get married? I always want an epilogue that talks about the couple six months or a year later and what they’ve overcome and compromised on to make things work. But that would take some of the romance out of the romance novel. And clearly I’m still a sucker for the falling in love crap or I wouldn’t keep reading the darn things.
To date, I haven’t had that head over heels in love experience. Maybe it’s like that religious ah-ha moment that seems to elude me as well. It’s out there for some, but not all people. So based on that, the idea of picking a person based on compatibility and love, but not necessarily fireworks, makes sense to me. Or maybe I’m just too cynical for my own good.
The conversation with my friend was followed up by a conversation between my female relatives. They were talking about how they didn’t know where they were going to end up living when they picked the guy. This coming mostly from the rural people. They picked the guy and then made everything else work. Years ago I asked my aunt how she knew that my uncle was the right person to marry. I’m paraphrasing here, but she essentially said that what she knew was she wanted him. So she made it happen and made it work. All these women who married the guy they wanted have all been married a long time, the aunties and my mom for over 30 years. Were there ups and downs over the years? Absolutely. But years later, they’re still making it work for them.
So apparently you can make marriage work if you choose the guy with spark, even if that means you might end up living somewhere less than ideal. So are you settling if you marry someone who comes with a sparkler instead of one of those giant mortars that light up the night sky? As someone who can easily see herself not getting married until the age of 40, there is some appeal to the sparkler that can give you life style you want and who enjoys the same activities.
From what I hear, marriage tends to be a lot of work whether you go for the big bang or compatibility. Does one make it easier than the other? I have no idea. Which means this whole blog and thought process still didn’t enlighten me with any pertinent advice for my friend. I’d like to think that a person can find both fireworks and compatibility. I’d like to think that at some point in life, we all get to experience fireworks. Or maybe I just think too much.
July 12, 2010
Smith Inlet - Part VII
6:50 am Saturday morning. True to form, Rob and I have all our gear and suitcases lined up at the end of the driveway, waiting for the parents to pick us up at 7. 6:55 am the parents arrive, also true to form. Meanwhile, poor cousin Jason is looking on with annoyance while he tries to figure out how to squeeze nine people and all their crap into a Dodge Caravan. As we pulled away from the curb, it looked like the latest attempt was to tie things to the roof.
Since we were in good shape to make the ferry, and had a reservation, I managed to talk my dad into stopping for coffee. We ended stopping at a gas station, because coffee shops along side the road on the upper island are few and far between. Cousin Anje was riding back to Seattle with us and in addition to coffee, we picked up our favorite Canadian candy bars too. I went with a Coffee Crisp, having already tried my childhood favorite, Smarties, earlier in the week (which was sadly disappointing, I think they’ve changed the recipe).
We made the ferry with an hour to spare. After having already been in the truck for about five hours and still having hours to go, I walked up and down the ferry terminal to kill time. I was also keeping an eye out to see if the cousins made this ferry. A couple of them needed to be in Vancouver that afternoon and the way the packing situation looked when we left, making this ferry would be iffy.
Finally, with about 20 minutes to spare, I saw a van drive in with stuff tied to the roof. Obviously the relatives had made it. Which was great because the ferry ride is always much more fun with cousins to hang out with for the two hour crossing. First things first once we boarded the ferry . . . fries with vinegar and gravy. I really don’t understand why I can’t order this in the States. This time, Dad had promised to buy everyone who made the ferry a Nanaimo Bar, so I got to keep my $2.29. Which yes, is overpriced because I can make an entire pan of them for less than $10. But a Nanaimo Bar on the ferry is tradition.
My favorite moment on the ferry was when the little cousins were using Rob and I’s iPods to play games. Here is how the funniest conversation of the entire trip went:
Ocean: Heidi, may I play your iPod with Joeleigh?
Heidi: Are your hands clean?
Ocean: Yup, I licked ‘em! (while holding them up for inspection)
Hard to argue with that logic.
Once off the ferry, and a brief stop at the duty free store to stock up on cheap booze, we made it across the border with a short wait and minimal hassle. The Americans are always slightly tougher. And after a few more hours, we had reached the end of our destination, and were safely back in Seattle. I was sitting on the couch with Anje, waiting for her hubby to come pick her up and all the sudden I felt like I was moving again. “Are you still rocking?” I asked her? “Oh good, I was afraid it was just me and I didn’t want to say anything!” she responded. Turns out Rob’s house really rocks like a boat when doing the dishes. So I only did that once. The rocking was completely gone by Monday.
Perhaps the most amazing part about this trip was the fact that there aren’t a lot of other families that could have done this. My family is incredibly unique in that we not only all get along, but we enjoy spending time together and do is as frequently as possible. Even in very small spaces with large numbers of us. Also nice is the fact that we all realize how special what we have is. My cousin’s wife jokes that she didn’t necessarily want to marry him, she just wanted into the family. Since I see her much more frequently than I see him, I think she’s only mostly joking.
I still can’t believe that after years of talking about doing this trip and after about a year of getting organized, it is already over. We would all do it again in a heart beat, but it’s likely that this was a once in a lifetime adventure. I’m so glad that I had the opportunity to see where my dad and aunties grew up, to walk where they walked (or boated) as children, and to spend time where my grandparents did. I loved hearing the stories about my Grandma Hazel, who I never had the opportunity to know. To see pictures of the old GMG camp and then to be looking out over the water where it used to be was incredible. Listening to the stories about camp and their parents from the siblings. Listening to the letters that my grandpa wrote to my grandma, asking her to marry him. It’s one thing to know your history and understand where you came from. It’s entirely different to get to experience it first hand. Smith Inlet was quite an epic adventure . . . one I’ll never forget.
Since we were in good shape to make the ferry, and had a reservation, I managed to talk my dad into stopping for coffee. We ended stopping at a gas station, because coffee shops along side the road on the upper island are few and far between. Cousin Anje was riding back to Seattle with us and in addition to coffee, we picked up our favorite Canadian candy bars too. I went with a Coffee Crisp, having already tried my childhood favorite, Smarties, earlier in the week (which was sadly disappointing, I think they’ve changed the recipe).
We made the ferry with an hour to spare. After having already been in the truck for about five hours and still having hours to go, I walked up and down the ferry terminal to kill time. I was also keeping an eye out to see if the cousins made this ferry. A couple of them needed to be in Vancouver that afternoon and the way the packing situation looked when we left, making this ferry would be iffy.
Finally, with about 20 minutes to spare, I saw a van drive in with stuff tied to the roof. Obviously the relatives had made it. Which was great because the ferry ride is always much more fun with cousins to hang out with for the two hour crossing. First things first once we boarded the ferry . . . fries with vinegar and gravy. I really don’t understand why I can’t order this in the States. This time, Dad had promised to buy everyone who made the ferry a Nanaimo Bar, so I got to keep my $2.29. Which yes, is overpriced because I can make an entire pan of them for less than $10. But a Nanaimo Bar on the ferry is tradition.
My favorite moment on the ferry was when the little cousins were using Rob and I’s iPods to play games. Here is how the funniest conversation of the entire trip went:
Ocean: Heidi, may I play your iPod with Joeleigh?
Heidi: Are your hands clean?
Ocean: Yup, I licked ‘em! (while holding them up for inspection)
Hard to argue with that logic.
Once off the ferry, and a brief stop at the duty free store to stock up on cheap booze, we made it across the border with a short wait and minimal hassle. The Americans are always slightly tougher. And after a few more hours, we had reached the end of our destination, and were safely back in Seattle. I was sitting on the couch with Anje, waiting for her hubby to come pick her up and all the sudden I felt like I was moving again. “Are you still rocking?” I asked her? “Oh good, I was afraid it was just me and I didn’t want to say anything!” she responded. Turns out Rob’s house really rocks like a boat when doing the dishes. So I only did that once. The rocking was completely gone by Monday.
Perhaps the most amazing part about this trip was the fact that there aren’t a lot of other families that could have done this. My family is incredibly unique in that we not only all get along, but we enjoy spending time together and do is as frequently as possible. Even in very small spaces with large numbers of us. Also nice is the fact that we all realize how special what we have is. My cousin’s wife jokes that she didn’t necessarily want to marry him, she just wanted into the family. Since I see her much more frequently than I see him, I think she’s only mostly joking.
I still can’t believe that after years of talking about doing this trip and after about a year of getting organized, it is already over. We would all do it again in a heart beat, but it’s likely that this was a once in a lifetime adventure. I’m so glad that I had the opportunity to see where my dad and aunties grew up, to walk where they walked (or boated) as children, and to spend time where my grandparents did. I loved hearing the stories about my Grandma Hazel, who I never had the opportunity to know. To see pictures of the old GMG camp and then to be looking out over the water where it used to be was incredible. Listening to the stories about camp and their parents from the siblings. Listening to the letters that my grandpa wrote to my grandma, asking her to marry him. It’s one thing to know your history and understand where you came from. It’s entirely different to get to experience it first hand. Smith Inlet was quite an epic adventure . . . one I’ll never forget.
July 9, 2010
Smith Inlet - Part VI (Day 5)
Friday morning I woke up early due to the sunshine streaming in through the wheelhouse windows. And since no one else was up yet, I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to take my one allotted shower.
We were limited to one shower per person, until we were sure we had enough water for the trip. I held out until Friday. Baby wipes for the body and baby powder and a hat for the hair can do wonders on a camping trip. I thought that I had the water temperature adjusted perfectly . . . until I got in. At which point the water decided to come out boiling hot. Note to self, the boat does not have a temperature control on it that most home water heaters do. I almost broke down the shower door trying to get out of the thing . . . and likely managed to wake anyone on the boat who was still asleep. Despite the mild burn I managed to give the front half of me, the feeling of having clean hair was worth it.
Breakfast was made on the beach using up whatever breakfast items we had remaining. Today we also had a special treat . . . evaporated milk as creamer in our coffee. Apparently this was a throw back to living at camp. There was also a can of condensed sweetened milk that was a big treat for my dad and aunties. They used to get a spoonful as a treat. I put some in my coffee and oatmeal and it tasted delicious.
Since it was sunny and mostly warm, we decided to hang at the Big Sand Beach for the morning. Calvin, Jeff and my dad all decided they should go swimming in the ocean one last time. After a lot of talking about it and then standing around waiting for the sun to come out from behind a cloud, they finally made it into the water. My dad tried to say it was warmer than when they jumped off the boat at Boswell, but I saw the goose bumps that had goose bumps and wasn’t convinced.
Eventually we all started heading back to the KJ to head to Port Hardy. This time I was smart and took some medicine before crossing the sound. I was still a bit worried about being sick though so after we ran out of whales to watch, I went and sat outside with mom and Rae-Leigh, the known sickies. I was actually feeling pretty good so to entertain them and take their mind off the eternal rolling of the boat, Greg and I sang/rapped “I’m On A Boat,” for them. They said they didn’t mind the F-bombs in the song, since it was still cleaner than what was going through their heads.
Just as I was starting to think about how I was starving (a clear sign that you’re not going to be sick, apparently), we got another amazing show from the marine life. Porpoises started playing in the wake! My dad came upstairs to make sure we’d seen them and here is how the conversation went:
Heidi: Dad, there are orcas swimming with the boat!
Dad: Heidi Marie, an orca would be as big as the boat. Why on earth would you think that is an orca? Obviously it’s a type of dolphin or porpoise.
Heidi: Because the black and white coloring and designs are the same. Maybe it’s a baby orca. Besides, all the dolphins I’ve ever seen are gray.
Dad: There are lots of kinds and colors of dolphins. Where did you see these gray dolphins?
Heidi: Seaworld. Duh.
Despite my father thinking I’m terribly inept at determining what kind of marine life is swimming along side the boat, the porpoises were pretty amazing. It was fun to watch them zoom in and out of the wake. After maybe 10 minutes, they got bored and left. Now if only we had seen real orca’s, we would have seen it all.
We made one last stop on the way back to Port Hardy. There was another midden where an old Indian (aka First Nations in Canada) village had been. Back in the day, they traded in beads, so this midden was known to have lots of Indian beads that could be found if you dug in the right place. So about half of us took the skiff to shore to look for ancient (okay, like 200 year old) beads. My aunt found one in about thirty seconds so I was pretty optimistic. Eventually I got over optimistic and got desperate. I hate the feeling of dirt on my hands and under my fingernails. At first I started digging and sifting dirt with a stick. Before I knew it I had dirt up to my elbows trying to find a damn bead. Alas, all I managed to find were some stinging nettles. I found myself oddly disappointed that I did not find a bead. Luckily, I am my father’s favorite daughter and he gave me his bead. Now I need to figure out how to make some cool piece of jewelry with it.
From the Indian bead midden, we still had a bit of a trek back to Port Hardy. The sun was out and the water was smooth so it was a nice and mellow ride in. About an hour out, it was funny to watch people starting to watch for their cell phones to have a signal. We’d been completely unplugged for five days and didn’t think about it once, until we were almost back to civilization.
We arrived back in Port Hardy and while the men unloaded the crap, I mean gear, the women cleaned up the boat. At about 10, we finally were able to head to our sleeping arrangements for the night. I opted to spend the last night where all the cousins were sleeping since I get to see them all so rarely. Plus that house had three showers. A non-boat shower after a week was amazing. And I was finally able to determine that I did in fact have tan lines on my feet, despite all the rain and clouds. For a while there, I wasn’t sure if it was actually a tan or just dirt.
The funniest part about getting off a boat after some time is that you still feel like you’re rocking. We were all holding on to counters and furniture trying to navigate the house. It took about three days for the rocking to go away. We tried to stay up and chat but we were exhausted and had to get up early in the morning to race for a ferry. It turned out to be pretty easy to fall asleep when you feel like you’re being rocked in a baby cradle.
We were limited to one shower per person, until we were sure we had enough water for the trip. I held out until Friday. Baby wipes for the body and baby powder and a hat for the hair can do wonders on a camping trip. I thought that I had the water temperature adjusted perfectly . . . until I got in. At which point the water decided to come out boiling hot. Note to self, the boat does not have a temperature control on it that most home water heaters do. I almost broke down the shower door trying to get out of the thing . . . and likely managed to wake anyone on the boat who was still asleep. Despite the mild burn I managed to give the front half of me, the feeling of having clean hair was worth it.
Breakfast was made on the beach using up whatever breakfast items we had remaining. Today we also had a special treat . . . evaporated milk as creamer in our coffee. Apparently this was a throw back to living at camp. There was also a can of condensed sweetened milk that was a big treat for my dad and aunties. They used to get a spoonful as a treat. I put some in my coffee and oatmeal and it tasted delicious.
Since it was sunny and mostly warm, we decided to hang at the Big Sand Beach for the morning. Calvin, Jeff and my dad all decided they should go swimming in the ocean one last time. After a lot of talking about it and then standing around waiting for the sun to come out from behind a cloud, they finally made it into the water. My dad tried to say it was warmer than when they jumped off the boat at Boswell, but I saw the goose bumps that had goose bumps and wasn’t convinced.
Eventually we all started heading back to the KJ to head to Port Hardy. This time I was smart and took some medicine before crossing the sound. I was still a bit worried about being sick though so after we ran out of whales to watch, I went and sat outside with mom and Rae-Leigh, the known sickies. I was actually feeling pretty good so to entertain them and take their mind off the eternal rolling of the boat, Greg and I sang/rapped “I’m On A Boat,” for them. They said they didn’t mind the F-bombs in the song, since it was still cleaner than what was going through their heads.
Just as I was starting to think about how I was starving (a clear sign that you’re not going to be sick, apparently), we got another amazing show from the marine life. Porpoises started playing in the wake! My dad came upstairs to make sure we’d seen them and here is how the conversation went:
Heidi: Dad, there are orcas swimming with the boat!
Dad: Heidi Marie, an orca would be as big as the boat. Why on earth would you think that is an orca? Obviously it’s a type of dolphin or porpoise.
Heidi: Because the black and white coloring and designs are the same. Maybe it’s a baby orca. Besides, all the dolphins I’ve ever seen are gray.
Dad: There are lots of kinds and colors of dolphins. Where did you see these gray dolphins?
Heidi: Seaworld. Duh.
Despite my father thinking I’m terribly inept at determining what kind of marine life is swimming along side the boat, the porpoises were pretty amazing. It was fun to watch them zoom in and out of the wake. After maybe 10 minutes, they got bored and left. Now if only we had seen real orca’s, we would have seen it all.
We made one last stop on the way back to Port Hardy. There was another midden where an old Indian (aka First Nations in Canada) village had been. Back in the day, they traded in beads, so this midden was known to have lots of Indian beads that could be found if you dug in the right place. So about half of us took the skiff to shore to look for ancient (okay, like 200 year old) beads. My aunt found one in about thirty seconds so I was pretty optimistic. Eventually I got over optimistic and got desperate. I hate the feeling of dirt on my hands and under my fingernails. At first I started digging and sifting dirt with a stick. Before I knew it I had dirt up to my elbows trying to find a damn bead. Alas, all I managed to find were some stinging nettles. I found myself oddly disappointed that I did not find a bead. Luckily, I am my father’s favorite daughter and he gave me his bead. Now I need to figure out how to make some cool piece of jewelry with it.
From the Indian bead midden, we still had a bit of a trek back to Port Hardy. The sun was out and the water was smooth so it was a nice and mellow ride in. About an hour out, it was funny to watch people starting to watch for their cell phones to have a signal. We’d been completely unplugged for five days and didn’t think about it once, until we were almost back to civilization.
We arrived back in Port Hardy and while the men unloaded the crap, I mean gear, the women cleaned up the boat. At about 10, we finally were able to head to our sleeping arrangements for the night. I opted to spend the last night where all the cousins were sleeping since I get to see them all so rarely. Plus that house had three showers. A non-boat shower after a week was amazing. And I was finally able to determine that I did in fact have tan lines on my feet, despite all the rain and clouds. For a while there, I wasn’t sure if it was actually a tan or just dirt.
The funniest part about getting off a boat after some time is that you still feel like you’re rocking. We were all holding on to counters and furniture trying to navigate the house. It took about three days for the rocking to go away. We tried to stay up and chat but we were exhausted and had to get up early in the morning to race for a ferry. It turned out to be pretty easy to fall asleep when you feel like you’re being rocked in a baby cradle.
July 8, 2010
Smith Inlet - Part V (Day 4)
Waking up on Thursday on the Big Sand Beach, anticipation for the day radiated off people like the sun on the water. Okay, not really. It wasn’t even sunny. But I couldn’t think of a good way to open this section. It was destined to be a fun day though because it was Calvin and Tamara’s anniversary, Canada Day and last but certainly not least . . . Pirate Day!
Throughout the trip my mom had been keeping the younger cousins entertained on the boat with preparations for pirate day. They colored in pirate scarves with fabric markers one day and spent a rainy afternoon bedazzling swords and hats. Since we were staying put on the Big Sand Beach for the day, today was the day of the much anticipated treasure hunt. Somehow it was determined that the big cousins without offspring would be in charge of the hunt. We spent the morning picking out the perfect hiding places and then retired back to the KJ to be creative with our clues. The clues were amazing, for which Greg gets all the credit. Our family is gifted with natural writing ability anyway, but this was a work of art.
Not only did the kids have to run up and down the beach to find clues, they had to take a ride in the skiff to another secret beach to get a clue. There was a plank to walk, which I made Rob and Greg haul onto the beach from a cliff, and treasure marked with an X. Actually there were three X’s. One had treasure . . . the others had two day old herring we found in the skiff that were supposed to be used for bait. Not my idea, but since I’d gotten my plank, I let the guys have their dead fish. Even the adults got into it, donning hooks, hats and swords, following the kids and grandkids up and down the beach watching them find the clues. Definitely one of the highlights of the trip for the kids. Where else do you have your own private beach to have a treasure hunt?
After the hunt, some of us went back to the KJ to make lunch. While we were waiting for the beans to warm up for our Haystacks, mom decided to go fishing. Apparently she forgot about the lack of a male presence on the boat when she actually caught one and realized she’d have to get it off the hook on her own. I was laughing at her while she shrieked at the idea of unhooking her fish and she suggested that I do it for her. I don’t do fish . . . so I got her a paper towel. She wrapped the fish in a paper towel and managed to get the hook out. I didn’t see her fishing solo again on the trip.
For dinner we cooked up the prawns and the remaining fish. I was delighted to find some rice to eat instead of another hot dog. I did try a bit of the prawn . . . and decided I’d rather keep eating hot dogs. Once again, my dad did his magic and cooked dinner for 22 over a camp fire. Even more incredible, in honor of the anniversary and Canada Day, he, with Joeleigh acting as sous chef, made two pineapple upside down cakes in a dutch oven heated by coals. The cakes turned out perfect. Pretty impressive when you consider that there are many people who can’t bake a cake in an oven. Dinner time was the only time that day I actually saw Uncle Don awake. Covered in ash from the fire, he slept in his chair all day long. At one point he poked a hole in his arm, after falling asleep with a knife in the other hand. He was up and at ‘em for those prawns though.
The weather decided to cooperate with our celebrations and we had a beautiful pink sunset that gave us a great natural light show. And of course all of us automatically repeated, “Red sky at night, sailors delight.” We had glow bracelets and mini Canadian flags to celebrate Canada Day and sang the national anthem. Well, the Canadians did anyway. Mom, Rob and I got through “Oh Canada, our home and native land,” before switching to humming. Then on to wine and toasts to celebrate the anniversary and the amazingness that is our family. Because how many families do you know that could do a trip like this and still like each other at the end?
Since it wasn’t raining, I had planned on sleeping in my tent that night on the beach. But by this time I couldn’t even find my tent. It was somewhere on the top deck with all the gear I was pretty sure, but after searching for it a few times, I gave up and decided sleeping on the boat was meant to be. Greg eventually drove us back to the KJ in the skiff . . . after having to row back to shore to get help getting the motor back in the water.
Throughout the trip my mom had been keeping the younger cousins entertained on the boat with preparations for pirate day. They colored in pirate scarves with fabric markers one day and spent a rainy afternoon bedazzling swords and hats. Since we were staying put on the Big Sand Beach for the day, today was the day of the much anticipated treasure hunt. Somehow it was determined that the big cousins without offspring would be in charge of the hunt. We spent the morning picking out the perfect hiding places and then retired back to the KJ to be creative with our clues. The clues were amazing, for which Greg gets all the credit. Our family is gifted with natural writing ability anyway, but this was a work of art.
Not only did the kids have to run up and down the beach to find clues, they had to take a ride in the skiff to another secret beach to get a clue. There was a plank to walk, which I made Rob and Greg haul onto the beach from a cliff, and treasure marked with an X. Actually there were three X’s. One had treasure . . . the others had two day old herring we found in the skiff that were supposed to be used for bait. Not my idea, but since I’d gotten my plank, I let the guys have their dead fish. Even the adults got into it, donning hooks, hats and swords, following the kids and grandkids up and down the beach watching them find the clues. Definitely one of the highlights of the trip for the kids. Where else do you have your own private beach to have a treasure hunt?
After the hunt, some of us went back to the KJ to make lunch. While we were waiting for the beans to warm up for our Haystacks, mom decided to go fishing. Apparently she forgot about the lack of a male presence on the boat when she actually caught one and realized she’d have to get it off the hook on her own. I was laughing at her while she shrieked at the idea of unhooking her fish and she suggested that I do it for her. I don’t do fish . . . so I got her a paper towel. She wrapped the fish in a paper towel and managed to get the hook out. I didn’t see her fishing solo again on the trip.
For dinner we cooked up the prawns and the remaining fish. I was delighted to find some rice to eat instead of another hot dog. I did try a bit of the prawn . . . and decided I’d rather keep eating hot dogs. Once again, my dad did his magic and cooked dinner for 22 over a camp fire. Even more incredible, in honor of the anniversary and Canada Day, he, with Joeleigh acting as sous chef, made two pineapple upside down cakes in a dutch oven heated by coals. The cakes turned out perfect. Pretty impressive when you consider that there are many people who can’t bake a cake in an oven. Dinner time was the only time that day I actually saw Uncle Don awake. Covered in ash from the fire, he slept in his chair all day long. At one point he poked a hole in his arm, after falling asleep with a knife in the other hand. He was up and at ‘em for those prawns though.
The weather decided to cooperate with our celebrations and we had a beautiful pink sunset that gave us a great natural light show. And of course all of us automatically repeated, “Red sky at night, sailors delight.” We had glow bracelets and mini Canadian flags to celebrate Canada Day and sang the national anthem. Well, the Canadians did anyway. Mom, Rob and I got through “Oh Canada, our home and native land,” before switching to humming. Then on to wine and toasts to celebrate the anniversary and the amazingness that is our family. Because how many families do you know that could do a trip like this and still like each other at the end?
Since it wasn’t raining, I had planned on sleeping in my tent that night on the beach. But by this time I couldn’t even find my tent. It was somewhere on the top deck with all the gear I was pretty sure, but after searching for it a few times, I gave up and decided sleeping on the boat was meant to be. Greg eventually drove us back to the KJ in the skiff . . . after having to row back to shore to get help getting the motor back in the water.
Smith Inlet - Part IV (Day 3)
My dad kept telling me how stunning (my adjective, not his) Smith Inlet was when the sun shined and how you can’t imagine wanting to be any place else when it was like that. On Wednesday I finally understood what he’d been talking about. I awoke due to this bright light shining in my eye through the wheelhouse windows. It took me a few minutes to realize it was sunshine! I rapidly packed up my gear and headed outside to enjoy it.
With blue sky and the sun shining down into the bay where camp used to be, I could picture what it must have been like to live there back in the day. It was easy to image the kids hoping in their rowboats to go explore the little island or playing with their pet seal or learning to swim by having a rope tied around them and being tossed without ceremony into the chuck.
While the boy cousins were making breakfast, I sat on the upper deck basking in the sun and alternately watching the fishermen below and reading my book. This was when Uncle Jeff decided jumping in sounded like a good idea. With his glasses. Half-way down he realized he’d forgotten to take his glasses off and had to dive in after them. He found them, but they were all bent out of shape. Luckily we’ve acquired an eye guy in the family and Calvin was able to make them mostly useable again.
Once one person had jumped in, a trend was started. Dad and Jason both went in and before I knew it all the little cousins were lined up on the back of the boat waiting their turns to hop in. They were bribed with a warm shower afterwards, and all but one ended up going in. Little kid blood is thicker I think, since I was still wearing 4 shirts at the time and was the perfect temperature. No way was I going in there.
About the time swimming was over and breakfast was being cleaned up, Greg and I discovered part of a lemon pie left over from the evening before. Obviously we took care of that. Nothing like pie for breakfast to know you’re on vacation.
So far on this trip, the only people we’d run into were people we expected to see. Other GMGers or old fishing buddies that were out and stopped to say hi and show us where to catch the big halibut. So you can imagine our surprise when a motor boat pulled around the corner and stopped to say hi. Two crusty, backwoods Canucks who were working as shake blockers a few inlets away (ironically in another previous GMG camp location) stopped to talk on their way to pick up their prawn traps. On their way back by, they gave us all the prawns from their traps! Huge score if you eat things that come from the sea. These things were huge and ugly and tentaclely. The shake blockers left with some lemon pie in exchange, despite their request for beer.
Eventually it started to sprinkle and we motored away from camp. On our way to see where the men used to go to work every day, a short boat ride away, we saw a baby whale. Then we headed for Olive Point, which is used primarily as a graveyard. Olive Point is a midden and one of the few places where it is easy to dig, hence it being turned into a graveyard. There are likely lots of unmarked graves, but there were also some old Goertzen’s who have been buried there. Chief George and his wife Lucy, of the Tukush, were also buried here. As far as graveyards go, this one was pretty spectacular. There was an amazing view from all angles and it was interesting to see the different generations of markers. This is also where the McGills (the M in GMG) had chosen to rest.
After Olive Point we headed to the Big Beach in Smith Inlet. When my dad and aunties were kids, their mom would bring them here to camp for a week at a time. Grandpa would drop them off one Sabbath and come back on the next to get them. What a brave women! Going camping alone with four kids on a deserted beach? Deserted with the exception of bears and wolves of course, both of which prints were noticeable in the sand. After hearing stories of Grandma Hazel on this trip, I’m fairly certain that a good amount of my fearlessness or courage came from her.
Speaking of bears . . . Whenever we were traveling throughout the inlet, a close eye was kept on the water to see what animals and marine life we could see. I noticed something bobbing in the water and at first thought it was a seal, only he never went under. By this point someone else had noticed this oddity in the water and the skipper informed us it was just a log. Turns out he was wrong. It was a grizzly bear swimming across the inlet! I actually jumped out of a window to get on the bow to watch him better. I’ve never seen a grizzly in person or a bear swimming. The combination was pretty amazing. We followed him to shore, from a respectable distance of course, and man could that bear swim. He’d already made it about half way across when we found him and then he practically sprinted once we began tailing him. To be fair, I get freaked out too when someone/thing is following me, even from a long way back. It was pretty amazing to watch him run out of the water, up the bank and into the woods. Talk about an incredible wildlife viewing opportunity. I’m betting there aren’t a lot of people who get to see that in their lifetime.
The big beach had beautiful sand, crazy amounts of driftwood and creeks for the kids to play in and keep them entertained for hours. Dinner that night was the giant ling cod that Uncle Don had caught on a hand line, cooked over the coals from the fire. I had another Loma Linda Stinky (vegetarian hot dog). The little girl cousins also decided that this would be a good time to build their own fire. Some adults were concerned at first, until my parents told them that we had always had a kid fire growing up. I had completely forgotten about that until they mentioned it. Big cousin Rob somehow got roped into helping the girls with their fire. He’s a sucker for their giant blue eyes and can’t say no to them, regardless of if they’re asking for help with a fire or if he’ll please bake them some cookies.
Since it had started to sprinkle a bit, I was quite happy with my decision to forego the leaky tent and sleep on the boat once again. There is so much daylight up there, we ended up going to bed late all the time, not realizing that it didn’t get dark until about 11. I snuggled into my sleeping bag with the boat rocking me to sleep like I was in a baby cradle.
With blue sky and the sun shining down into the bay where camp used to be, I could picture what it must have been like to live there back in the day. It was easy to image the kids hoping in their rowboats to go explore the little island or playing with their pet seal or learning to swim by having a rope tied around them and being tossed without ceremony into the chuck.
While the boy cousins were making breakfast, I sat on the upper deck basking in the sun and alternately watching the fishermen below and reading my book. This was when Uncle Jeff decided jumping in sounded like a good idea. With his glasses. Half-way down he realized he’d forgotten to take his glasses off and had to dive in after them. He found them, but they were all bent out of shape. Luckily we’ve acquired an eye guy in the family and Calvin was able to make them mostly useable again.
Once one person had jumped in, a trend was started. Dad and Jason both went in and before I knew it all the little cousins were lined up on the back of the boat waiting their turns to hop in. They were bribed with a warm shower afterwards, and all but one ended up going in. Little kid blood is thicker I think, since I was still wearing 4 shirts at the time and was the perfect temperature. No way was I going in there.
About the time swimming was over and breakfast was being cleaned up, Greg and I discovered part of a lemon pie left over from the evening before. Obviously we took care of that. Nothing like pie for breakfast to know you’re on vacation.
So far on this trip, the only people we’d run into were people we expected to see. Other GMGers or old fishing buddies that were out and stopped to say hi and show us where to catch the big halibut. So you can imagine our surprise when a motor boat pulled around the corner and stopped to say hi. Two crusty, backwoods Canucks who were working as shake blockers a few inlets away (ironically in another previous GMG camp location) stopped to talk on their way to pick up their prawn traps. On their way back by, they gave us all the prawns from their traps! Huge score if you eat things that come from the sea. These things were huge and ugly and tentaclely. The shake blockers left with some lemon pie in exchange, despite their request for beer.
Eventually it started to sprinkle and we motored away from camp. On our way to see where the men used to go to work every day, a short boat ride away, we saw a baby whale. Then we headed for Olive Point, which is used primarily as a graveyard. Olive Point is a midden and one of the few places where it is easy to dig, hence it being turned into a graveyard. There are likely lots of unmarked graves, but there were also some old Goertzen’s who have been buried there. Chief George and his wife Lucy, of the Tukush, were also buried here. As far as graveyards go, this one was pretty spectacular. There was an amazing view from all angles and it was interesting to see the different generations of markers. This is also where the McGills (the M in GMG) had chosen to rest.
After Olive Point we headed to the Big Beach in Smith Inlet. When my dad and aunties were kids, their mom would bring them here to camp for a week at a time. Grandpa would drop them off one Sabbath and come back on the next to get them. What a brave women! Going camping alone with four kids on a deserted beach? Deserted with the exception of bears and wolves of course, both of which prints were noticeable in the sand. After hearing stories of Grandma Hazel on this trip, I’m fairly certain that a good amount of my fearlessness or courage came from her.
Speaking of bears . . . Whenever we were traveling throughout the inlet, a close eye was kept on the water to see what animals and marine life we could see. I noticed something bobbing in the water and at first thought it was a seal, only he never went under. By this point someone else had noticed this oddity in the water and the skipper informed us it was just a log. Turns out he was wrong. It was a grizzly bear swimming across the inlet! I actually jumped out of a window to get on the bow to watch him better. I’ve never seen a grizzly in person or a bear swimming. The combination was pretty amazing. We followed him to shore, from a respectable distance of course, and man could that bear swim. He’d already made it about half way across when we found him and then he practically sprinted once we began tailing him. To be fair, I get freaked out too when someone/thing is following me, even from a long way back. It was pretty amazing to watch him run out of the water, up the bank and into the woods. Talk about an incredible wildlife viewing opportunity. I’m betting there aren’t a lot of people who get to see that in their lifetime.
The big beach had beautiful sand, crazy amounts of driftwood and creeks for the kids to play in and keep them entertained for hours. Dinner that night was the giant ling cod that Uncle Don had caught on a hand line, cooked over the coals from the fire. I had another Loma Linda Stinky (vegetarian hot dog). The little girl cousins also decided that this would be a good time to build their own fire. Some adults were concerned at first, until my parents told them that we had always had a kid fire growing up. I had completely forgotten about that until they mentioned it. Big cousin Rob somehow got roped into helping the girls with their fire. He’s a sucker for their giant blue eyes and can’t say no to them, regardless of if they’re asking for help with a fire or if he’ll please bake them some cookies.
Since it had started to sprinkle a bit, I was quite happy with my decision to forego the leaky tent and sleep on the boat once again. There is so much daylight up there, we ended up going to bed late all the time, not realizing that it didn’t get dark until about 11. I snuggled into my sleeping bag with the boat rocking me to sleep like I was in a baby cradle.
July 7, 2010
Smith Inlet - Part III (Day 2)
After sleeping in a swimming pool for the night, I’ve never seen such a welcome sight as my uncle and cousin driving the skiff to shore with a pot of coffee in hand. Add a splash of Bailey’s and life was good again.
Tuesday was supposed to be spent exploring the areas that the siblings remembered best. It was going to be a long day on the boat to see everything on the list, so we all packed up and headed to the boat for breakfast. Only to find out that while the tide had gone out, the boat had become stuck on the bottom. Sigh. So after breakfast I crawled into the fo’c’sle for a mid-morning nap. A couple hours later I found myself peering over the back of the boat with my aunt, trying to estimate how many more inches of water we needed to get unstuck. Meanwhile people went fishing or kayaking, napped or found a spot to bask in the sun when it came out intermittently.
Finally, around noon, we were able to get on our way. I was a little worried about getting seasick again, although the water in the inlet was considerably smoother, the memory of hanging off the side of the boat was fresh in my memory. As it turns out, nature took pity on me and provided a distraction. Whales! And lots of them. We had so much fun chugging down the inlet watching the whales. Not only did we see the mist from the blowholes, we saw their noses and backs and their tales. No breeching, but this was still pretty amazing. Since it was raining again at this point, the majority of us were crowded inside. One cousin woke up her sleeping baby when she hopped up out of her seat to yell “Whale!” At one point I shouted, “Whale, one o’clock!” And my youngest cousin, who is 8, says in response, “but I don’t know what that means,” with dramatic despair. This turned out to be one of the best quotes of the trip.
After the whales, we motored to the old Tukush settlement. After having been on the boat for hours, while stuck to the bottom and traveling, we were anxious to get off and look for artifacts. In my mind I was picturing us finding ancient pottery and arrowheads. What we found was crap. Old soles of shoes, metal and glass was everywhere. It was so overgrown it was hard to explore too far. It’s amazing how the government can decide that a tribe will be better off somewhere else and just move an entire settlement of people. And leave behind nothing but junk.
Since the old Tukush settlement didn’t hold much excitement, and it had started pouring again, we motored further up the inlet towards Boswell, which was the last place the logging camp was stationed and where it was for the longest period of time. Boswell is completely abandoned now, but you can still see the pilings from and old cannery and fuel station. As we turned a corner, almost in unison, the siblings said “there’s the island!” Clearly we were almost there. Camp had been settled in a naturally protected inlet. There was a long peninsula jutting out from the land that acted as a natural breakwater. With log booms on the back side of the camp to keep it from bashing into the shore, this looked like a pretty good place to homestead.
Since we were back at camp we had retro dinner night, which was something familiar to the siblings from their childhood and has since turned into many of the kids’ and grandkids’ favorite meals. We had gluten with mashed potatoes and gravy with home made lemon meringue pie for dessert. Best meal ever. Serious props to my cousin the baker who made not one, but six, lemon pies from scratch in the boat oven.
That night we all had to sleep on the boat since there was no beach to camp on. I’m not sure how big the KJ is, but it gets considerably smaller when you have people laying down on every available inch of floor space. And I mean every inch – one little cousin slept under a table. We ended up being two spaces short, so being the tough guys that they are, my dad and brother slept outside on the boat. Where it was cold. And raining, again. Serious kudos to them. Ironically, not one person was fighting over getting to sleep in the fo’c’sle. It had five bunks in there . . . . but the catch was it was housing the snorers. I opted for floor space and had the best sleep in my cozy little corner.
Tuesday was supposed to be spent exploring the areas that the siblings remembered best. It was going to be a long day on the boat to see everything on the list, so we all packed up and headed to the boat for breakfast. Only to find out that while the tide had gone out, the boat had become stuck on the bottom. Sigh. So after breakfast I crawled into the fo’c’sle for a mid-morning nap. A couple hours later I found myself peering over the back of the boat with my aunt, trying to estimate how many more inches of water we needed to get unstuck. Meanwhile people went fishing or kayaking, napped or found a spot to bask in the sun when it came out intermittently.
Finally, around noon, we were able to get on our way. I was a little worried about getting seasick again, although the water in the inlet was considerably smoother, the memory of hanging off the side of the boat was fresh in my memory. As it turns out, nature took pity on me and provided a distraction. Whales! And lots of them. We had so much fun chugging down the inlet watching the whales. Not only did we see the mist from the blowholes, we saw their noses and backs and their tales. No breeching, but this was still pretty amazing. Since it was raining again at this point, the majority of us were crowded inside. One cousin woke up her sleeping baby when she hopped up out of her seat to yell “Whale!” At one point I shouted, “Whale, one o’clock!” And my youngest cousin, who is 8, says in response, “but I don’t know what that means,” with dramatic despair. This turned out to be one of the best quotes of the trip.
After the whales, we motored to the old Tukush settlement. After having been on the boat for hours, while stuck to the bottom and traveling, we were anxious to get off and look for artifacts. In my mind I was picturing us finding ancient pottery and arrowheads. What we found was crap. Old soles of shoes, metal and glass was everywhere. It was so overgrown it was hard to explore too far. It’s amazing how the government can decide that a tribe will be better off somewhere else and just move an entire settlement of people. And leave behind nothing but junk.
Since the old Tukush settlement didn’t hold much excitement, and it had started pouring again, we motored further up the inlet towards Boswell, which was the last place the logging camp was stationed and where it was for the longest period of time. Boswell is completely abandoned now, but you can still see the pilings from and old cannery and fuel station. As we turned a corner, almost in unison, the siblings said “there’s the island!” Clearly we were almost there. Camp had been settled in a naturally protected inlet. There was a long peninsula jutting out from the land that acted as a natural breakwater. With log booms on the back side of the camp to keep it from bashing into the shore, this looked like a pretty good place to homestead.
Since we were back at camp we had retro dinner night, which was something familiar to the siblings from their childhood and has since turned into many of the kids’ and grandkids’ favorite meals. We had gluten with mashed potatoes and gravy with home made lemon meringue pie for dessert. Best meal ever. Serious props to my cousin the baker who made not one, but six, lemon pies from scratch in the boat oven.
That night we all had to sleep on the boat since there was no beach to camp on. I’m not sure how big the KJ is, but it gets considerably smaller when you have people laying down on every available inch of floor space. And I mean every inch – one little cousin slept under a table. We ended up being two spaces short, so being the tough guys that they are, my dad and brother slept outside on the boat. Where it was cold. And raining, again. Serious kudos to them. Ironically, not one person was fighting over getting to sleep in the fo’c’sle. It had five bunks in there . . . . but the catch was it was housing the snorers. I opted for floor space and had the best sleep in my cozy little corner.
Smith Inlet - Part II (Day 1)
Monday dawned sunny and clear. I may have done a happy dance when I opened the blinds. Between the sun and the many eagles soaring overhead, I figured this had to be a good omen for the trip.
We arrived at the boat dock to load our remaining gear. Some of the other families were also loading gear. Based on the amount of crap on the dock, I was starting to wonder how much weight the boat could hold and where on earth were we going to put it all. Instead of having to help load the boat, I lucked out and pulled baby holding duty. It seemed like it took forever to load the boat, get the last minute things like gas for the skiff and fishing licenses, and get going. Instead of pulling out of the harbor at eight like we were supposed to, it ended up being closer to ten. On the way across the bay to get water, we realized that we were missing three people. After some confusion, they met us at the water dock, and had to climb down a giant ladder to meet us on the boat. Ironically my mother, who is terribly afraid of heights, was part of the missing party. And as her luck would have it, it was low tide so the ladder was extra long. After climbing down a barnacle and muscle infested ladder, we finally had everyone on board and set out for the Queen Charlotte Sound.
The big question at this point is who gets seasick. Some were known were already known for their dislike of rough water and some having been on the sea a large portion of their life knew they would be fine. Did I get seasick? We were about to find out. I decided not to take any medicine because I wanted to know for future reference. Besides, I’m tough as nails, how bad could some waves be? This turned out to be a poor idea as about half way across the sound I found myself headed outside for fresh air. Before I knew it, I was breaking out in a cold sweat and heading for the side of the boat as quickly as I could maneuver the various steps and ladders in the rain. I spent the remainder of the trip across the sound totally in a zen like state, staring intently at the horizon and repeating the fifty states in alphabetical order while willing the boat to go faster. Finally we turned the corner and I dragged my exhausted self into the fo’c’sle (short for forecastle) for a nap. It was pouring rain and I had no desire to be the first person to the beach.
We spent Monday afternoon and night at Indian Cove, on Cape Caution. We quickly found our rain gear and set up our tents in the rain. I’ve never been so happy to own a pair of rain pants. With my Chaco’s on instead of close toed shoes and rain pants rolled up so they didn’t drag in the mud, I made quite the fashion statement. I discovered what makes camping in the rain more tolerable . . . alcohol. A swig or two of Maker’s Mark went a long way in improving my attitude about the weather. And some Bailey’s. And some Goldschlagger.
The beach here was awesome. Enclosed in a little bay the water was nice and gentle. A short walk through the forest led you to the other side of the cape and another awesome, bigger beach. People have found glass floats on this beach before, so I kept my eyes open but all I got was wet. Eventually it was time for some hot dogs over the fire and then low and behold it stopped raining!
Since it had stopped raining, I decided that this would be a good time to air out my tent. What I discovered wasn’t a stale tent, but a wet one. The sideways blowing rain and the slope of the beach had created a small puddle in the tent and gotten my sleeping bag wet. Annoying, but not a biggie since the sun was out now and I could set it outside to dry.
While my sleeping bag was drying, we took another trip over to the big beach to see it in the sun. The little cousins didn’t think twice about running into the waves and getting even wetter than they already were. One of them would go in far enough that the waves would splash into her rain boots. At which point she tricked one of the guys into emptying her boots out for her every time the ocean got in them. Easy to do when you’re a beautiful and precocious nine-year old.
As I was wiggling around in my tent that night, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, I heard the rain start up again. My dad had informed me not 15 minutes before that he was pretty sure it wouldn’t rain again that night. He should be a weatherman. After silently cursing the rain, I finally made it to sleep. Only to wake up in the middle of the night needing to use the facilities. And since the facility was on the boat, anchored offshore, I mean a bush. Somehow my shoes had gotten wet. I didn’t think much about it until I looked back into the tent and saw that it had turned into a swimming pool during the past hours of rain. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped quite so many swear words as I did when I discovered how badly my tent was leaking. Nor have I ever prayed for daylight to come so fast. Despite having a rain fly on, I now had water dripping through the rain fly and the tent. Seriously? Talk about bad camping karma. As soon as the sun was up, I was out of my tent packing up the wet gear. After using my beach towel to sop up the water, and wringing it out no less than three times, I finally had the floor of the tent mostly dry.
I awoke soggy in a flooded tent, but when I stepped outside, the sun was trying to break through the clouds and a perfect rainbow was hanging over the Kristin Joye. I think the universe was trying to apologize for my soggy night. I needed some coffee before all would be forgiven and this turned into a funny story.
We arrived at the boat dock to load our remaining gear. Some of the other families were also loading gear. Based on the amount of crap on the dock, I was starting to wonder how much weight the boat could hold and where on earth were we going to put it all. Instead of having to help load the boat, I lucked out and pulled baby holding duty. It seemed like it took forever to load the boat, get the last minute things like gas for the skiff and fishing licenses, and get going. Instead of pulling out of the harbor at eight like we were supposed to, it ended up being closer to ten. On the way across the bay to get water, we realized that we were missing three people. After some confusion, they met us at the water dock, and had to climb down a giant ladder to meet us on the boat. Ironically my mother, who is terribly afraid of heights, was part of the missing party. And as her luck would have it, it was low tide so the ladder was extra long. After climbing down a barnacle and muscle infested ladder, we finally had everyone on board and set out for the Queen Charlotte Sound.
The big question at this point is who gets seasick. Some were known were already known for their dislike of rough water and some having been on the sea a large portion of their life knew they would be fine. Did I get seasick? We were about to find out. I decided not to take any medicine because I wanted to know for future reference. Besides, I’m tough as nails, how bad could some waves be? This turned out to be a poor idea as about half way across the sound I found myself headed outside for fresh air. Before I knew it, I was breaking out in a cold sweat and heading for the side of the boat as quickly as I could maneuver the various steps and ladders in the rain. I spent the remainder of the trip across the sound totally in a zen like state, staring intently at the horizon and repeating the fifty states in alphabetical order while willing the boat to go faster. Finally we turned the corner and I dragged my exhausted self into the fo’c’sle (short for forecastle) for a nap. It was pouring rain and I had no desire to be the first person to the beach.
We spent Monday afternoon and night at Indian Cove, on Cape Caution. We quickly found our rain gear and set up our tents in the rain. I’ve never been so happy to own a pair of rain pants. With my Chaco’s on instead of close toed shoes and rain pants rolled up so they didn’t drag in the mud, I made quite the fashion statement. I discovered what makes camping in the rain more tolerable . . . alcohol. A swig or two of Maker’s Mark went a long way in improving my attitude about the weather. And some Bailey’s. And some Goldschlagger.
The beach here was awesome. Enclosed in a little bay the water was nice and gentle. A short walk through the forest led you to the other side of the cape and another awesome, bigger beach. People have found glass floats on this beach before, so I kept my eyes open but all I got was wet. Eventually it was time for some hot dogs over the fire and then low and behold it stopped raining!
Since it had stopped raining, I decided that this would be a good time to air out my tent. What I discovered wasn’t a stale tent, but a wet one. The sideways blowing rain and the slope of the beach had created a small puddle in the tent and gotten my sleeping bag wet. Annoying, but not a biggie since the sun was out now and I could set it outside to dry.
While my sleeping bag was drying, we took another trip over to the big beach to see it in the sun. The little cousins didn’t think twice about running into the waves and getting even wetter than they already were. One of them would go in far enough that the waves would splash into her rain boots. At which point she tricked one of the guys into emptying her boots out for her every time the ocean got in them. Easy to do when you’re a beautiful and precocious nine-year old.
As I was wiggling around in my tent that night, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, I heard the rain start up again. My dad had informed me not 15 minutes before that he was pretty sure it wouldn’t rain again that night. He should be a weatherman. After silently cursing the rain, I finally made it to sleep. Only to wake up in the middle of the night needing to use the facilities. And since the facility was on the boat, anchored offshore, I mean a bush. Somehow my shoes had gotten wet. I didn’t think much about it until I looked back into the tent and saw that it had turned into a swimming pool during the past hours of rain. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped quite so many swear words as I did when I discovered how badly my tent was leaking. Nor have I ever prayed for daylight to come so fast. Despite having a rain fly on, I now had water dripping through the rain fly and the tent. Seriously? Talk about bad camping karma. As soon as the sun was up, I was out of my tent packing up the wet gear. After using my beach towel to sop up the water, and wringing it out no less than three times, I finally had the floor of the tent mostly dry.
I awoke soggy in a flooded tent, but when I stepped outside, the sun was trying to break through the clouds and a perfect rainbow was hanging over the Kristin Joye. I think the universe was trying to apologize for my soggy night. I needed some coffee before all would be forgiven and this turned into a funny story.
July 6, 2010
Smith Inlet - Part I
Throughout my life, I heard tales of this mysterious place called Smith Inlet. It is an inlet about halfway up the coast of British Columbia where my grandfather ran his logging operation and my dad and aunts were born and raised. This wasn’t just any logging operation; it was a floating logging camp. GMG (Goertzen, McGill, Gildersleve) Logging would move their camp throughout Smith Inlet to where they happened to be logging. The camp had houses, a church and even a school. Instead of bikes, kids had boats. They had pet deer and seals in addition to the more traditional dog. They learned to swim by having a rope tied around them and being tossed into the chuck (aka the ocean). Smith Inlet is only accessible by boat or float plane. So after hearing about this place all our lives, when the opportunity arose to see it first hand, the entire family jumped at the chance to visit.
For the past few years, the family has talked about how amazing it would be for the siblings to go back and visit where they grew up and how they would like to show it to their kids and grandkids. The first task was to find a boat. The bulk of my relatives were commercial fisherman at some point in their lives and had all worked on seine boats at some point. My uncle was a skipper, others ran drum and cooked, and others did whatever one does on a fishing boat (commercial fishing died about the time I was old enough to work so I never had the opportunity). We had a crew, we just needed a boat. My uncle talked to his old boss, James, who owned a whole fleet of boats in the fishing heyday. He asked if it would be possible for our family to rent one of his boats for him to take this adventure. James’ response was “for Louis Goertzen’s kids, you can take the boat for free, just pay for the fuel.” My grandfather was an amazing person.
James met my grandfather when GMG was logging in Smith Inlet. James was part of the Tukush Indian Tribe that was at that time located in the Inlet as well (they were later relocated to Port Hardy by the government). Unlike anyone else in his tribe at the time, he had a burning desire to get an education. So much in fact, that he rowed at least two miles each direction to attend school at the GMG logging camp. Through sun or storms, James rowed to school. Today he is likely the most successful of his tribe. Going to school at GMG was how he met my grandfather. While I’m unsure what kind of impact my grandfather had on James, it must have been significant, since he was willing to lend our family his million dollar boat without thinking twice.
After working around twenty-some odd vacation schedules, we were finally able to set a time to take a trip to Smith Inlet. Many of the siblings hadn’t been there in years, with many of their offspring having never been at all. Amazingly, only one cousin (and a couple of spouses) was unable to make it.
The first leg of the trip was getting to Port Hardy, BC, which as far north as you can drive on Vancouver Island. I met up with the family in Seattle, my parents having already driven over from Montana. The ‘rents told my brother and I that they would pick us up at 530 am. True to Goertzen form, Rob and I had our gear lined up on the sidewalk by 520. We are very much our father’s children.
The next trick was going to be getting across the border, while hopefully not getting searched. We were driving in the big Dodge, with a boatload of gear and miscellaneous crap in the back of the truck, tarped down to avoid getting wet. Amazingly, after asking us if we had any weapons or pepper spray (in a fun French accent), the border person’s main objective was to let us know that my brother and I were Canadian and we could have used a Canadian passport, instead of our American ones. Typically my Canadian passport stays at home when I go to Canada since it’s usually more hassle than its worth to explain you’re a duely.
With the border crossing behind us, the next stop was the Tsawassen ferry terminal. We and a van full of other relatives traveling up from Seattle made the ferry with no problems. It’s always more fun to take the ferry with your cousins. And in my typical ferry tradition, I headed straight to the cafeteria to get my fix of Canadian delicacies that you can’t get in the states. Namely fries with vinegar and gravy, yummmmm, and a Nanaimo Bar for dessert.
We made it to the Nanaimo Costco in time to watch the last half of the US soccer game. The moms went shopping and the rest of us slackers hung out in the TV section of Costco. Then it was time to repack the truck because where in the hell was this food all going to fit with all the crap already in the truck? Finally, after 5 more hours of driving up the Island, we made it to Port Hardy. Even I got to take a turn driving my dad’s new truck! First time in the 15 years I’ve been driving that he’s let me drive his rig. It has adjustable pedals so I can reach important things, like the brake.
After making it to Port Hardy, we unloaded everything in the truck on to the boat. The boat had gotten a really ugly paint job since the last time I was on it around the age or 11 or 12. But she was sea worthy and free, which trumps ugly every time. With eagles soaring overhead and a mixture of diesel and seaweed in the air, you could tell the folks who grew up on the water were happy to be back.
Sunday was spent cleaning and organizing the boat and cooking for the next day, since you can’t cook going over the sound. We ran around picking up relatives, last minute trips to the grocery store, and borrowing wetsuits and surfboards from Port Hardy folks. That night, we had a bonfire and bbq on Storey Beach and invited those Port Hardy people who knew the Goertzen family, some of whom had also grown up on the floating logging camp. This was the start of my many, many hot dogs to be consumed over the week.
Before I knew it, Monday morning had dawned bright and beautiful and it was time to head to the boat. Where experiences unlike any other awaited . . . . starting with how the hell do you fit 22 people, an infant, and all their crap onto a fishing boat.
For the past few years, the family has talked about how amazing it would be for the siblings to go back and visit where they grew up and how they would like to show it to their kids and grandkids. The first task was to find a boat. The bulk of my relatives were commercial fisherman at some point in their lives and had all worked on seine boats at some point. My uncle was a skipper, others ran drum and cooked, and others did whatever one does on a fishing boat (commercial fishing died about the time I was old enough to work so I never had the opportunity). We had a crew, we just needed a boat. My uncle talked to his old boss, James, who owned a whole fleet of boats in the fishing heyday. He asked if it would be possible for our family to rent one of his boats for him to take this adventure. James’ response was “for Louis Goertzen’s kids, you can take the boat for free, just pay for the fuel.” My grandfather was an amazing person.
James met my grandfather when GMG was logging in Smith Inlet. James was part of the Tukush Indian Tribe that was at that time located in the Inlet as well (they were later relocated to Port Hardy by the government). Unlike anyone else in his tribe at the time, he had a burning desire to get an education. So much in fact, that he rowed at least two miles each direction to attend school at the GMG logging camp. Through sun or storms, James rowed to school. Today he is likely the most successful of his tribe. Going to school at GMG was how he met my grandfather. While I’m unsure what kind of impact my grandfather had on James, it must have been significant, since he was willing to lend our family his million dollar boat without thinking twice.
After working around twenty-some odd vacation schedules, we were finally able to set a time to take a trip to Smith Inlet. Many of the siblings hadn’t been there in years, with many of their offspring having never been at all. Amazingly, only one cousin (and a couple of spouses) was unable to make it.
The first leg of the trip was getting to Port Hardy, BC, which as far north as you can drive on Vancouver Island. I met up with the family in Seattle, my parents having already driven over from Montana. The ‘rents told my brother and I that they would pick us up at 530 am. True to Goertzen form, Rob and I had our gear lined up on the sidewalk by 520. We are very much our father’s children.
The next trick was going to be getting across the border, while hopefully not getting searched. We were driving in the big Dodge, with a boatload of gear and miscellaneous crap in the back of the truck, tarped down to avoid getting wet. Amazingly, after asking us if we had any weapons or pepper spray (in a fun French accent), the border person’s main objective was to let us know that my brother and I were Canadian and we could have used a Canadian passport, instead of our American ones. Typically my Canadian passport stays at home when I go to Canada since it’s usually more hassle than its worth to explain you’re a duely.
With the border crossing behind us, the next stop was the Tsawassen ferry terminal. We and a van full of other relatives traveling up from Seattle made the ferry with no problems. It’s always more fun to take the ferry with your cousins. And in my typical ferry tradition, I headed straight to the cafeteria to get my fix of Canadian delicacies that you can’t get in the states. Namely fries with vinegar and gravy, yummmmm, and a Nanaimo Bar for dessert.
We made it to the Nanaimo Costco in time to watch the last half of the US soccer game. The moms went shopping and the rest of us slackers hung out in the TV section of Costco. Then it was time to repack the truck because where in the hell was this food all going to fit with all the crap already in the truck? Finally, after 5 more hours of driving up the Island, we made it to Port Hardy. Even I got to take a turn driving my dad’s new truck! First time in the 15 years I’ve been driving that he’s let me drive his rig. It has adjustable pedals so I can reach important things, like the brake.
After making it to Port Hardy, we unloaded everything in the truck on to the boat. The boat had gotten a really ugly paint job since the last time I was on it around the age or 11 or 12. But she was sea worthy and free, which trumps ugly every time. With eagles soaring overhead and a mixture of diesel and seaweed in the air, you could tell the folks who grew up on the water were happy to be back.
Sunday was spent cleaning and organizing the boat and cooking for the next day, since you can’t cook going over the sound. We ran around picking up relatives, last minute trips to the grocery store, and borrowing wetsuits and surfboards from Port Hardy folks. That night, we had a bonfire and bbq on Storey Beach and invited those Port Hardy people who knew the Goertzen family, some of whom had also grown up on the floating logging camp. This was the start of my many, many hot dogs to be consumed over the week.
Before I knew it, Monday morning had dawned bright and beautiful and it was time to head to the boat. Where experiences unlike any other awaited . . . . starting with how the hell do you fit 22 people, an infant, and all their crap onto a fishing boat.
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