* …’time’ here referring to maybe six months or so…

A bit of whimsy on the streets of the city.

I have found a few instant friends by the relatively simple, but not entirely foolproof, method of contacting a couple of bicycle groups and, so, of course, most of my activities end up being bicycle related but Mexico City proves to have no shortage of them.

Sunday morning sees me hazily wandering the streets of the city, after a uncharacteristic night of partying. A combination of Mexico City authorities have instituted a Sunday Bike Programme, in which some major city avenues are turned over to pedestrians, skaters and cyclists between 8.00 am and  2.00 pm every Sunday. A range of activist groups that wish to promote cycling are out and about on the streets preaching their gospel.

Something like 4 million motor vehicles are in use in Mexico City every day, commuters spend nearly two hours each day in transportation and 25% of the carbon dioxide emissions in the city are produced by cars. It would be nice to see a few more people on bikes as their preferred means of everyday transport instead of just Sunday recreation but the Sunday Bike Programme seems like a very good start in promoting bike culture in the city.

ECOBICI are one of the many groups in Mexico City which are trying to promote cycling. If you are a member of the programme (which requires you to have a credit card registered with the organisation) you can borrow a bike from any ECOBICI station and use it free of charge for up to three hours. It is possible to return the bike to any ECOBICI station in the city.

Another ECOBICI station.

The local constabulary also get around on bikes.

Bicitekas is cycle activist group that has a number of projects. One is Paseo a Ciegas, where volunteers  take sight-impaired people on tours of the city on tandems as part of the Sunday Bike Programme.

All sorts of bike organisations and projects exist in Mexico City. A volunteer wearing a tee-shirt sporting the Paseos a Ciegos logo.

I spend the first few weeks in Mexico City staying with Alisa and her three cats and two flatmates. This tolerant household seems unfazed by my erratic comings and goings and the various belongings, including my bike, that I leave scattered around the lounge room.

Alisa and Orix.

DF empties out over the semana santa - Holy Week – as Easter is known in Mexico. Semana santa is one of Mexico’s most important holidays, although less for its religious significance, than for the opportunity it provides for people to enjoy Mexico’s fabulous beaches.

I explore the city’s markets, the most obviously attractive of which is the flower market, housed in a bustling cavernous tin building. The place never sleeps because you simply can’t know when you might have an urgent need of flowers.

Flower market - open 24 hours a day, 365 days a years...

...because you never know when you might need a funeral wreath...

...or a party balloon...

...or a couple of hundred dozen roses...

...or just piles and piles of flowers.

Every market place has a shrine and this market clearly never lacks for cut flowers to place on the alter.

There are always plenty of flowers here, I'm sure, for the market place shrine.

In the general market, behind the Zocalo, I come across another macabre religious figure: Santa Muerte. This statue stands behind the counter of a stall where it is possible to buy herbal remedies for all your spiritual and bodily ailments. To one side you may, if you choose, enter a small booth sealed by a slightly ominous sliding door to get your aura cleansed for a mere 120 pesos. I briefly contemplate having the procedure performed before deciding that, on reflection, that I would prefer my aura to retain is imperfections.

In the general market, I come across more grim religious imagery. Santa Muerte's Catholic credentials are slightly dubious, I think.

Big cities have an undeniable force, something like that of a black hole, that draws me in and holds me tight and I find it hard to drag myself away from DF. Eventually I relieve Alisa and her household of my presence on their couch and move to another cat-loving household a little further south – with Rose and her feline friend, Yumi.

People gradually drift back into the city after Easter and the pace of life picks up again. Paseos Nocturnos is another Bicitekas initiative; every Wednesday at 9.00 pm cyclists gather under The Angel of Independence on Reforma to cycle through the night-time city. The evening I participated the group rode a relatively short distance to the Zocalo, and around the market areas behind it, but often the night rides are much more extended and don’t finish until 1.00 or 2.00 am.

Another Bicitekas activity are night rides around Mexico City. Every Wednesday, the group meets under the Angel at 9.00 pm and explores different areas of the city on two-wheels.

Police survey the crowd of cyclists - a couple of police cars accompany the ride.

Darkness...

...and light...

More bicycle lights in the night.

I meet with Cheve, a keen biker and mountaineer, to quiz him for information about climbing some of Mexico’s more challenging volcanoes. I have my eyes set on Iztaccihuatl but to reach the summit it is necessary to deal with some glaciated areas and this is an aspect of climbing of which I have no previous experience. We meet on a rainy afternoon at UNAM, the Autonomous University of Mexico, and chat sheltering first under a freeway bridge before making our way, in a break in the downpour, to an local example of 70s land art, a giant ring of concrete triangles surrounding a patch of volcanic rock – the rock that much of Mexico City is built from. We continue our conversation about trips and adventures and when the skies open again we hide out in a small underground cave in the middle of the encircled area.

An art work at the UNAM (National Autonomous University of Mexico) - the circle surrounds a patch of volcanic rock. There is even a little underground cave in the middle of it.

Later in the evening, I meet with Kodiak, another keen cycle tourist. Kodiak appears to devote most of his spare time to promoting cycle touring in Mexico by organising trips for members of Ciclovida, a group he co-ordinates.  We met earlier in the week to swap cycling stories and, when Kodiak discovered that I have been riding without a helmet since mine was stolen in Guachochi, he insisted that Ciclovida would provide me with a new one.

Kodiak, the co-ordinator of Ciclovida, a bike group with the aim of promoting cycle touring, gives me a new helmet to replace the one that was stolen in Gauchochi.

So, finally, armed with plenty of good advice on the best route out of Mexico City to Puebla -  my next stop -  and a brand new helmet, I am ready to leave DF. Getting out of DF requires negotiating some pretty hairy roads so I am quite happy to have a hard head again.

The periferico....

...is an awe-inspiring and...

... and awful thing. Just imagine if all those resources, effort and ingenuity were put into making something really useful.

We arrive at the canyon lookout late in the afternoon and check out the scene.

The lookout affords a good view of the trail we will follow to the bottom of the canyon.

We hike down to a suspension bridge that marks the end of vehicle roads and camp for the night in a structure that was clearly built with a bigger tourist population in mind than is evident. We see no-one.

In the morning we set off, in earnest.

Missing planks make the suspension bridge slightly disconcerting.

Jason tackles it rather nervously ...

...followed by Jeff.

Our walk starts out in pine forest - over half the world's pine species are found in the Copper Canyon area.

But soon we start to descend into a magic realm of rivers, waterfalls, cactus and succulents.

Clear, cold water runs over smooth rock...

...collecting in freezing cold pools.

We head along an exposed walking trail that forms part of the route of an annual 100 kilometre marathon run.

I'd prefer to take it at a more sedate pace, myself. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

Plants cling to sheer rock walls...

...or squeeze themselves into the smallest of gaps...

A venerable fig tree wrapping itself lovingly around a boulder.

Days are short in the canyon but it is far warmer here than up above. Snow is predicted to fall in Guachochi over the next few days and clouds whizz by overhead.

We set up camp while we are still descending a side canyon.

We bed down, without the benefit of a tent, with the local wildlife.

I wake with nothing much but the sky above me...

...surrounded by towering rock walls.

Breakfast over the embers of last night's campfire...

...while the sewing project continues.

Once we get underway and continue walking more...

...and more intriguing vegetation appears...

...along with the odd sleepy cow.

The stream offers the unexpected gift of fresh water cress...

...which we harvest enthusiastically...

...before continuing through the tangled cactus.

Cactus and tree, intertwined.

We finally reach the main canyon...

...where we meet a group of four locals, fishing.

They are the first people we have seen in a couple of days.

We walk down river, crossing the tributary stream we have been following. The stream crossing results in a bit of impromptu bridge building...

...and as dusk falls and storm clouds gather, we ford the main river to reach a beach with some sheltering rocks on the other side where we set up camp.

The campfire...

...attracts some strange visitors.

Another day starts slowly...

...which we use to explore up river. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

We harvest some prickly pears to supplement our food supply with yet more wildfood.

The terrain is quite rough and contains various hazards...

... I end up in the water four times; twice by choice - and twice by accident. The water is icy and it's a cool day so by the time I return to camp at dark, in wet clothes, I am frozen to the bone. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

We start another day relaxing in the sun at our beach camp...

...before setting off down river to find our way back out of the canyon. We pass the ruins of homesteads...

...and even more terrifying suspension bridges - which thankfully we don't have to cross...

...before we finally, and somewhat reluctantly, climb back out of the canyon and back to the lookout at the top. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

I have no idea when Cass and Jeff will arrive so I set about making myself at home. I start by setting up my tent and then address myself to picking a range of salad greens, Swiss chard and green beans. Keith donates some pesto to my repast in exchange for a dinner invitation and Cass and Jeff arrive just in time for me to include them in the feast and so we end up eating Christmas dinner together.

Harvesting from Keith's abundant green garden. Photo: Jeff Volk.

The next few days are spent in a positive orgy of eating. Fresh grapefruit juice for breakfast is a daily highlight.

Fresh grapefruit juice for breakfast - one of the treats available at Entre Amigos, if you are willing to put the effort in.

Dinner options include fresh pesto made from coriander (or cilantro for the Americans in the audience) and salads with delicious dressings of Jeff’s invention.

Jeff sets to work in the communal kitchen to make coriander/cilantro pesto...

...which is a lot of work with only low tech tools at his disposal.

A green dinner from a green garden: coriander pesto, green beans and fresh salad with avocardo and grapefruit juice dressing. Photo: Jeff Volk.

We are so happy in our garden paradise that we barely leave Keith’s premises, eating and relaxing in the sun. When Cass unexpectedly has to leave for the UK just after Christmas leaving the plans for a trip to the coast in disarry, Jeff and I start to hatch an alternative plan to take a walk in the canyon. We decide to make our way to Batopolis, another small village in the neighbouring canyon, for New Year’s Eve.

It is still raining and icy cold. I have a huge hankering for pancakes and I need to restock my food pannier. Tusayan is big enough to fulfill both these needs and, on arrival, I head straight for the first café that I see to order a stack of pancakes. With wi-fi an added café bonus, I check the weather and discover that snow and night time temperatures of -9 to -12 Celsius are predicted over the next five days. I linger in the café for as long as I can and then move on to the general store.

The produce is limited and overpriced but I grab what I can. I have spread my purchases out on the ground to organise and pack them into my pannier when a girl passes by.

“Are you camping out in this weather?” she asks.

“Yes!” I reply.

“You can come and stay at my house,” she offers.

I look up from my packaging.

“I’ve got the day off and I’ve rented some videos – I’m going to spend the afternoon watching them. It’s 67 degrees (around 20 degrees Celsius) at home.”

I’m almost sold.

“We call it Casa de Cougar. It’s a trailer in the RV park – we all work as trail guides. Just turn right up there. You can’t miss it – it’s at the end of the road and ours is the only one with bikes.”

How can I refuse? I tell her I’ll be there as soon as I’m organised; a warm comfy house, within striking distance of the Grand Canyon, filled with people with an intimate knowledge of it seems like a stroke of good fortune that would be extremely foolish to refuse.

I soon join Jess on the couch and spend the afternoon watching videos. As dusk draws in Jess suddenly exclaims, “Have you seen the Canyon yet?”

I admit that I haven’t.

“Well, let’s go and see the sunset then!”

We jump in the car and effortlessly drive the seven miles to the edge of the Canyon. It is cold enough that there are only half a dozen people to be seen on one of the most visited points on the South Rim. I have forgotten my camera and so I watch the sun set without distraction.

My second glimpse of the Grand Canyon - the following morning.

We shop for food at the Grand Canyon Village store and head home to make dinner. Tank, another member of the household, arrives and we eat, drink and talk. Tank has maps and advice about day walks and I resolve to get up early and explore.

In the morning, as snow drifts gently down, I set off on my bike to ride fourteen miles to Hermit’s Rest at the west end of the South Rim for a eight mile return hike to Yuma Point.

A dusting of snow in forest on the way into the Grand Canyon National Park.

The road to Hermit’s Rest hugs the rim of the Canyon and I stop constantly to admire the views.

Grand Canyon views.

The wind is icy and I am glad to descend into the Canyon where it is sheltered and the temperatures are warmer. I met a few weary people on the Hermit Trail, making the ascent, but once I turn onto the Yuma Point there is not another soul to be seen all day.

Heading down into the Canyon.

It's big!

Walking in the Canyon is strenuous but very worthwhile.

I was particularly taken by these plants...

...from all angles.

Loads to see on a small, as well as grand, scale...

Lichen in every colour.

The Canyon is mesmerising and I walk further and further, glancing from time to time at my watch to check I have enough time to make the ascent before dark but pushing back my deadline, time after time.

The Colorado River runs far below - beckoning... but that's a walk for another day.

Eventually I turn back, motivated by the fact that if I get caught out after dark my new-found friends will have to come out and look for me.

I make the ascent as the sun sinks spreading golden light over the rock faces.

Golden light at the rim of the Canyon.

As I reach the rim of the Canyon I re-enter the icy gale and stand waiting in rapidly coagulating darkness for a shuttle bus to take me back to Grand Canyon Village. Once there I still have the seven miles to ride back to Tusayan and as I haven’t managed to replace my headlamp yet I realise that I will have to ride on the highway without lights. The bus driver drops me off at a strategic location in the village and gives me directions for a short cut to the highway.

The roads are totally unlit and I can’t see anything at all unless a car passes me from behind. Cars coming in the opposite direction blind me completely and the cars can’t see me at all. I stop when I reach the highway and decide to try my luck hitch-hiking. After several pick-ups speed by I get a lift with a some Native Americans and sit huddled with my bike in the tray of the truck freezing but safe for the seven miles ride to Tusayan. I reach the house at about 8pm, just about the time when people start to worry but before anybody was motivated to come looking for me.

Tank, a Canyon guide and resident of Casa de Cougar.

Tank pointing out the Jackalope.

Three days pass: walking, talking, eating and staying warm at night. Jess tells me I can ride to Flagstaff on forestry tracks and so I go to the Ranger’s Office in search of maps and information. The man whose job it is to sell me maps is enthusiastic about the idea and spends twenty minutes making photos copies to save me $10. He gives me a compass, as well.

I could happily stay at Casa de Cougar for a long time but eventually I manage to repack my belongings into my panniers and load my bike. Tank cooks a huge breakfast to send me on my way and and then I set off into the forest towards Flagstaff.

A mega breakfast to send me on my way - a big fry-up of eggs, potatoes, sausage. My first experience of Southern biscuits and apple butter. Yum! Good cycling food.

So when I am riding along a cliffy section of the coast an hour or so before sunset and I see a narrow path leading over a grassy hill and across a meadow towards the cliff half a mile away I am easily lured onto it. I push the bike through clinging grass still wet from a recent squall. Clouds are looming again out to sea and the weather looks uncertain but I am drawn to the cliff’s edge where a sheltering cave is formed by the curving arms of a windswept spruce. Waves crash far below, rocks rise out of the sea. A large sandstone stack towering above the water just to the left of my eyrie could almost be considered an island with its spiky top knot of trees.

Ocean stack with a top knot of trees.

Clouds out to sea in the evening.

I love the feeling of camping by myself in a wild place – of being alone hidden from the eyes of the world. The sun sets over the sea into the bank of clouds still hanging there and I watch the stars come out, one by one, overhead. Later in the night it rains and I wake, listening to raindrops falling on the thin membrane which protects me from the elements.

The rugged coastline of the Pacific Northwest is heart-achingly beautiful.

My little tree cave hanging above the ocean...

... and you would never even know that I was there.

On the peninsula, the small towns I pass through are reminiscent of scenes from Twin Peaks and I find it slightly disturbing. I keep expecting to see odd characters walking down the sidewalks, to glimpse strange happenings out of the corner of my eyes or to come across stray body parts lying on the green lawns. Tom had mentioned that David Lynch was something of a local and it seems to fit although I know nothing of the details.

Lynchville.

Creepy.

However, nothing of note occurs until late in the afternoon when I see strange forms, in the distance, struggling up a long hill. There is a person pushing an obviously heavy load and I can see a smaller figure dancing alongside. I overtake them as they stop at the crest of the hill to rest. It is a woman, with her daughter – the woman’s bike has a child’s third wheel attached and she is towing a heavily laden trailer behind that. The trailer is jam packed with gear and adorned with car wheel hub caps. I am almost speechless.

“Wow!” is all I can think to say.

“Where you just behind me before?” the woman inquires, “On the big hill?”

“No.” I reply.

“That’s odd” she says, “My husband said he saw a cyclist just behind me when we were coming down that big hill but I never saw them pass me.”

“Hmmmmm.” I say. The Lynchian factor, perhaps.

She informs me that her husband is ahead of her and I should tell him that she is coming, so I continue on my way. I soon come across a man on a Surly Big Dummy long wheel base bike, loaded down with an insane amount of luggage, towing a trailer with two young children sleeping in it.

The man asks me if I have seen his wife and, as I am telling him she should be here soon, the woman and her daughter comes into sight over the hill and pull up beside us. We discuss camp plans and food. We are all hungry and tired. I am utterly fascinated by this family and so I ride with them, keeping their pace. We stop at a grocery store and buy immediately edible junk food and sit outside on the pavement eating – an instant gypsy encampment.

They have a map of the peninsula they picked up from an information centre that details local bike routes and they tell me there is a 30 mile cycle route to Port Townsend which will get us off the highway. I am relieved because the traffic on 101 is fast and heavy.

Many US state and county parks have hiker biker sites, for campers who eschew motorised transport, that are often very cheap. There is a State park nearby and so we decide to check it out. After a short ride on the cycle path we arrive at the park to find two of the sites are already occupied by solo cyclists and we discover that the sites are a hefty fifteen dollars each. I had already agreed that I would share a site with the family to reduce the cost but we strike up conversation with Astrid, an English woman who has been on the road for two years on a round-the-world tour, and she agrees to let us share her site. A tent city springs up.

Fully loaded!

Nothing by halves - look at the size of that tent!

Joni and Daeli’s children are Noiel, a six-year-old girl, Elan, a three-year-old boy, and Lovam, an eleven-month-old baby boy. Until recently they have all been living on a thirty foot boat in Panama but it became too crowded for all five of them so they have decided to hit the road on bicycles instead. Joni is American and Daeli is French. Noiel is being home-schooled while they travel, in French, by her father. Elan, the middle child, has evident special needs, with extremely limited mobility and communication skills.

Family life.

Noiel playing.

A toy for the children.

The amount of stuff these people are carrying around on their bikes is astounding. They have a range of gifts that have been given to them recently by well-meaning family members who clearly have no idea whatsoever of what travelling on a bicycle involves. They also seem to have taken everything they possessed on the boat with them. They are carrying things as diverse and superfluous as full size mosquito nets and safety flares, a two way radio set as well as countless toys and books for the children, dress-up clothes… the list is endless. I suddenly feel like an ultra-lightweighter.

Riding to Ganges, the main town on the island, I collect blackberries and fill my pannier with apples.

Apples are dropping from the trees everywhere on Salt Springs.

Jane has sketched a little map in my black book and I match the landmarks she has featured with a more detailed map from the information office in Ganges. Their cabin, it turns out, is on the far side of the island.

I am struggling up the last of the incredibly steep hills, wondering what I am going to do if Jane and Eric are not home, when I hear a voice behind me: “I don’t believe it!” Jane jogs, seemingly effortlessly, up the hill. I am exceeding glad of the excuse to get off the bike and push.

We walk together up the rest of the hill and turn off the road to a path leading to a tiny cabin sheltered amongst trees. Jane and Eric have only just returned from their own bike trip a few days ago. We share bicycle stories and photos and catch up on news – they are good friends of Sheila. Eric makes popcorn and cooks dinner and I then sleep on the sofa.

In the morning, I go for a walk with Jane. She is an excellent guide, pointing out items of interest, on every scale: mountains, islands, knots in trees, tree bark, mossy banks, clumps of grass, birds – nothing escapes notice. Vultures fly overhead and we lie on our backs on a bed of thick green moss pretending to be dead. The birds are not fooled.

Jane leading the way.

Oak tree at the top of the hill, looking out over the Gulf Islands.

Douglas fir cones.

A spider's web.

Moss, like an animal's pelt.

A tree that seems related to a eucalypt, to me.

Red bark.

A protuberance.

Turkey vulture overhead.

In the afternoon, we go for a swim in a small lake near the house and pick buckets of blackberries. The berries are amazingly prolific this year.

Prolific berries.

A damselfly by the lake. It was so motionless we thought it might be dead until it suddenly took flight.

Jane, picking blackberries.

It rains all night. I enjoy the sound of the raindrops on the roof from my warm bed on the couch and I am not inspired to leave, as planned, in the morning when the torrent has not yet ceased. I decide to devote the day to writing an article instead. While I write Jane makes jam with the frozen blackberries left over from last year. In the afternoon we visit the local cheese maker and sample all their wares – soft goat cheese and a range of lucious olives.

I have had trouble, as I always do, with the public phone when trying to ring Sheila for directions and to let her know that I am impending. The beast had swallowed large quantities of quarters without result, as the ferry threatened to leave the wharf with my bicycle already loaded. A man organising his bundles of groceries on the boat lends me his mobile phone when he learns of my predicament.

Sheila gives me a long set of directions – clear enough – but I am without pen and paper to hand and so I recite them aloud, as she speaks, in order to remember them. The man and his girlfriend are paying attention and give their opinion when I get off the phone. They find a map somewhere on the ferry which they mark with some vague clues as to my presumed destination, potential camp sites and their address and present it to me with an invitation to visit them.

Getting off the ferry I am greeted by name by Sue, Sheila’s neighbour, who offers to take my bags, corrects the errors of the map and quickly produces a hand-drawn supplement. I set off through the forest on a good packed unmade road towards the south of the island.

Turning, finally, off the road onto a narrow track with a sign forbidding motor vehicles, but welcoming walkers, I come across a woman wielding an axe next to a pile of split logs and a wheel barrow.  Sheila greets me with the statement, “You travel light!” In my enthusiasm to arrive, I have sailed straight past Sue’s truck parked at the end of the track with my panniers still sitting in the tray. I backtrack and return laden and then we make our way to the house.

Sheila.

If I had to describe my dream house it would come very close to matching Sheila’s. It is a small wooden shingle structure sitting on the water’s edge. The decking, which extends over sea-water at high tide, is probably equal in area to the inside space. To the right of the back door, steps lead down to the sea, a bath tub is set into rocks to one side with a space underneath to light a fire to heat the bath-water. To the left of the house are boats, two kayaks and a slightly decrepit row boat and a series of small sheds – one for the wood pile, one for boat stuff and one closed.

Sheila's house.

Dishwashing view.

We lunch from Sheila’s garden; fresh lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber and peppers, supplemented by crackers and cheese. Sheila then returns to the garden while I nap, first on the deck in the sun and then in the loft bed at my disposal.

Later in the afternoon, I go out in a kayak and paddle along the rugged shoreline, exploring hidden bays and coves for an hour or two. Clouds above like fish scales, lichen on the rocky cliffs making patterns like the stylised wave forms in oriental paintings.

In the middle of the night, thunder rolls and lightening cracks and Sheila gets up to move things inside off the decking but the morning dawns bright and clear.

I spend the day lazing around the house and in the afternoon we visit the garden and then tour the neighbourhood. Sheila’s daughter-in-law and grandson live close by and Sue and Peter, also. Sue and Peter are harvesting potatoes in their garden. Sue finds a perfect snake skin on the ground, abandoned as thoughtlessly as a piece of clothing of last year’s fashion.

We return to the house to cook pasta with pesto made from fresh basil and fennel stewed in olive oil. We discuss books, family, life.

Sheila harvesting fennel.

In the morning the tide is out and I dig for clams on the exposed mud flats. The bay is home to a small commercial operation and so we use their gear to do our poaching. Sheila shows me how it is done; a small rake drags the clams unresisting from the mud. The creatures do not move at all so the amount skill and effort involved is small – especially compared to that required to collect pipis, clam’s ocean-going antipodean cousins with which I have previous experience and provide a far greater challenge, burrowing through sand with surprising speed and determination. Once they are in the bucket, however, the two are pretty similar.

Mudflats at lowtide.

Gathering shells for dinner.

Oysters are also plentiful and I gather a few even though mud oysters don’t have the same glamour as rock oysters. A bucket of seafood quickly gathered, I return to the house. We sprinkle oatmeal into the water with the idea that it will speed the clams’ digestion and encourage them to expel all grit before dinner. Unfortunately Sheila is going out in the evening so I can’t share them with her. In the meantime, she entertains me by reading aloud from Between Pacific Tides, a book on marine biology, a treatise on the sex life of oysters.

I spend a lazy afternoon in the garden collecting vegetables and herbs for dinner – tomatoes, a pepper, a few carrots, parsley, thyme – and picking blackberries.

Gathering vegetables and berries.

When I return to the house the tide is in and I take the kayak out again, paddling in the opposite direction this time, past a series of small islands. A seal is playing in the distance and I paddle towards it but as I approach it disappears below the surface. I continue parallel to the shore line until a huff behind me alerts me to a seal, perhaps the same one, swimming in my wake – grey head bobbing in the water as it gazes after me. We regard each other curiously until the seal tires of it and sinks below the surface again.

I continue to the point in the gathering twilight. I can’t see the sun behind the clouds but I know it is descending as the surface of the water is darkening rapidly – smooth ripples making intricate patterns in grey, brown and fawn. I head back to the house and as I enter the bay, another seal is there to greet me, peering earnestly at me for a long moment and then submerging. I stop and float, bobbing gently in the twilight water trying to see the seal under the surface but it has disappeared without a trace.

After an evening swim, I steam the clams in a tomato sauce and eat them with freshly harvested potatoes.

Clams for dinner.

It is the season of plenty on the island: harvest time – fruit and vegetables ripe and abundant, flowers still blooming in the gardens. The sun shines enough to provide power.

Sheila's garden.

Beefsteak tomatoes.

Onions.

Squash.

Pinto beans.

Pinto, black and orca beans.

Abundance in the greenhouse.

From mid-September through October things are not as easy for Sheila, the solar panels are starved of light and there is not yet enough water to spin the water wheel – and I guess when the tomatoes, peppers and eggplants are all gone the garden seems less bountiful, too. Sheila’s larder is full of preserves and pickles but I imagine the winter can seem long.

Sheila’s house has no locks. She has lived on Lasqueti for thirty-five years. At first her house floated on the water – tethered here and there, in the places where she was able to – before she dragged it up onto the shore and fixed it to the ground, slowly adding a room on here and there.

Neighbourhood messages.

I sit and watch the water.

Imagine thirty-five years of watching the tide rising and falling, watching the changing sky and the succession of the seasons, knowing the names of the trees and which birds will visit, day after day.

I wonder if I will ever be so part of anything. To watch a child grow, a grandchild grow, the garden grow.

CLAMS STEAMED IN TOMATO SAUCE

Ingredients:

• tomatoes
• olive oil
• garlic
• onion
• parsley
• oregano
• freshly ground black pepper
• salt

Chop garlic and onions and saute until transparent in olive oil. Add chopped tomatoes, herbs, salt and pepper and cook down for a while. When the tomato sauce is ready add the cleaned clams. Close the pot with a tight fitting lid. Steam until the clams open, tossing or stirring from time to time. Serve with rice, pasta or bread.