I strike out towards the Lagunas de Montebello on a stretch of gravel road leading from Comitan, a town about 90 kilometres from San Cristobal. The unpaved road provides a tranquil morning ride through beautiful pine forest and an unexpected wildfood gift, when I pull of the road for a break.

A perfect gravel road through pine forest...

... with berries ripe for the picking.

The day is warm and humid and so I am happy that it is not too long before I catch glimpses of the first of the promised lakes through the trees. Each lake, apparently, is a different colour and one of the first I see is crystal clear and a startling turquoise blue. Sadly, I am prohibited from swimming in it as it is reserved for drinking water.

Gorgeous colours.

A girl insists on collecting water for me.

Thwarted in my immediate desire to swim, I do in search of another opportunity. I continue until I spot some official buildings where I try to get some information about the area but there are no maps to be had.  A group of people are sitting outside the building and a man tells me there is a walking track to a lake and two cenotes nearby and so I lock my bike and go to investigate.

The branch of a pine laden with guest plants.

With nothing much to go on but the knowledge of the existence of these bodies of water, I set off into the pine forest to investigate. I soon pass the lake, sitting below the track, but it is muddy and there is no obvious access to the water and so I continue.

After twenty minutes or so I come to an observation tower on top of a hill. A boy is sitting at the base of the tower fiddling with his mobile phone. I ask him about the cenotes and he gestures vaguely to a track leading to the left. If I follow it I will come to a trail which will take me to them, he informs me, and then turns his attention back to his phone. I climb the tower in hope of a visual clue but the tree canopy is unbroken as far as I can see.

Walking track through the forest.

Looking down on the pine canopy from an observation tower.

When I descend I follow the path the boy pointed out and soon enough I come to a narrow trail leading to the left descending into the valley. Taking the path I wander through the forest until the path starts to climb again and I lose confidence. I retrace my steps and return to the main path and follow it until I find another path leading to the right. I investigate this path but it doesn’t look promising. I decide to give the other path another go and continue over the rise and then on the other side blue water peeps through the trees. The tantalising water beckons invitingly but the path circles the top and then turns away from the cenote.

I am dying for a swim.

I decide to bush bash and descend through thick scrub down a precipitous slope until I get to a more or less sheer 20 metre drop over rough rock. I turn back and try a few different approaches – unsuccessfully. Retreating to the top, I circle around looking for a better approach. An hour or so passes, fruitlessly, before I give up, frustrated and head back to my bike pondering on my, until now urealised need, for a machete.

A cenote hidden in the forest, discovered by luck and persistence. The tantalising waters, however, prove problematic to reach.

Back on the bike, I ride until I reach paved road on the main highway leading to the Lagunas and pass by a number of lakes. I check each one out for its swimming potential. Five Lakes looks the most promising from an aesthetic point of view but again access is difficult with the lakes sitting far below the level of the road.

Five lakes.

It is late in the day before I end up in the water at Tziscao in front of an admiring audience of small boys and then try to find a suitable place to camp.

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)

On my way into Jedediah Smith I meet a couple of cyclists on the road I saw in a supermarket car-park in a town I passed through earlier in the day and we wave to each other. The hiker/biker camp sits, secluded, among giant redwoods just above a river, clear water running noisily in its wide rocky bed. It is a busy river that obviously gets much busier after the winter snow melts.

The couple have already set up camp but they are the only other people in a sizable area with well spaced camp sites. I choose a site at a polite, but sociable, distance from their camp. After I examine the maps provided at the park entrance, and figure out a potential route for tomorrow, I wander to the couple’s camp site to see what maps or guides they might have to share with me.

There is no sign of the guy but the girl and I talk for a while, first poring over maps, and then, after I spot a lobster mushroom on the table, moving onto the subject of funghi. The girl is on her way to buy some beer from a grocery store, a mile or so down the road, and she invites me to come over later for a drink.

In the evening, when I drop in for the promised beer her boyfriend is tending a small fire. I have brought some fallen wood with me so as not to arrive empty handed and I offer it to him. The guy thanks me but points out a sizable foil wrapped fishy shape on the grill above the fire and says he will stoke up the fire later. Eyeing off the aluminium clad bundle, I am instantly filled with envy.

“I don’t have a Californian fishing licence,” he confesses, suddenly, and I promise not to tell on him.

Stephanie hands me a beer and we stand next to the fire discussing, alternately, bicycles and fish. When the trout is cooked Brian divides it into two and then offers me a small piece which I greedily accept. He tells me about all the others which he released and I nod, sadly. I love fish. I quiz him about fishing for trout in streams – an art I am unfamiliar with. He shows me his telescoping rod which packs up discretely and a box of pretty lures and flies.

“I’m going to go fishing again in the morning. You can have a go, if you like,” he offers.

“Yes, please!” I don’t hesitate for a second.

In the morning, I get up and go to the river as soon as I wake. I spot Brian, standing knee deep in the water.  He is bringing a fish towards the bank, as I approach over the rocks, but by the time I reach him he is crouched low by the water and I only catch a flash of silver disappearing. He turns and sees me.

A passionate fisherman.

“Did you see that? That had to be 6 pounds! A steelhead.”

He gestures, wildly, indicating the size of the fish. I admit that I didn’t see much. He describes the struggle: how the fish swam under a rock, how the line chaffed on the rock – that one there! – but, then, how the fish eventually tired and he reeled it in, back under the rock, without the line breaking.

... that's the rock...

“You should have seen it. It was leaping and jumping… it put up a great fight! It was the most exciting fishing experience of my life!” It is hard to doubt him; his hand is on his heart as he speaks, his eye aglow with a almost religious fervour.

“Would you like to have a go?”

I would.

My first cast goes well, hitting the water exactly where I had intended but I am not used to fishing in fast rocky streams. I let the lure hit the bottom and it snags instantly and irrevocably. I am mortified. Brian, however, is philosophical and rigs up the rod again. I throw out the lure again, and then again, and again; only once briefly hooking a tiny fish. Eventually, I give up, accepting that it is porridge for breakfast, again.

I am equally passionate about fish but not nearly as skilled at catching them.

Oregon's dune area is a sea of shifting sand.

Sand encroaching on the highway.

I pass a sign indicating a campground and continue climbing to the top of a long hill. I am riding through forest on a still warm afternoon. Fireweed, a roadside companion that has been with me all the way from Alaska, still lines the highway: the plants are like old friends now – I have watched them bloom and fade over more than six thousand kilometres.

Fireweed is an old friend now.

At the top of the hill I change my mind, make a u-turn, and speeding back down the slow upward mile I just covered I return to the campground. The area is heavily wooded and the campground, quiet, almost deserted – closing for the season at the end of the week, a sign at the entrance informs me. I choose a sheltered site where my tent is not visible and set up camp before exploring.

An information board displays a map of a six mile loop trail traversing forest, dunes and the beach. Ignoring the lengthening shadows, I set off uphill through the forest and after quarter of an hour emerge onto golden sand dunes. Where the path crosses the sand all traces of previous footprints have been effaced by a relentless wind. I case about until I find the path again where it crosses a more sheltered area of the dunes but, after some hesitation, I decide that if I walk as far as the beach it will be dark on the return trip so I, opting for ’sensible’, make my way back to camp.

Dunes in the evening.

Grass and sand.

A perfect dune.

Grass and sand calligraphy.

In the morning, I return to the trail and set off heading the other way around the loop which takes me on a longer walk through the forest. The forest is hushed with that special silence which is filled with small sounds: rustles and sighs, stirrings and sudden disappearances. Constantly irascible squirrels scold shrilly and then silence falls once more. The light is soft, filtered again and again, first by mist and then by foliage. The forest floor is thick and soft, padded with green moss, grey lichen and red brown fir needles. I walk slowly, the path winding gently uphill through old trees – Douglas fir, spruce and hemlock.

A tree frog.

At the top of the hill the forest opens out and I am lured off the path by mushrooms – mysterious life forms that are neither plant nor animal. They are everywhere bursting forth from the ground, pushing vigorously through the forest litter, clinging delicately to tree stumps, rising up in holes and crevices – magical indescribable beings.

Most of the funghi I see are unknown to me and I have left my new mushroom guide at my camp but a few chanterelles appear and find their way into a makeshift collecting bag created by my tank top sealed by a knot. A white mushroom, which I take initially for a pale chanterelle growing at the bottom of quite a deep hole, turns out to have no gills on inspection of its underside. I put it in the bag for later identification. Some mushrooms have been disturbed and I can see the small yellow stumps here and there. I am not the first mushroom hunter here.

Not sure - a small amanita of some description?

Clusters of mushrooms - honey mushrooms, perhaps?

Close up of the clusters.

A mushroom with patent vigour!

Small knobbly mushrooms.

Vanished conks (Ganoderma tsugae) - bizarre creatures, inedible but used medicinally .

Yellow funghi on the ground.

I wander slowly through the forest drifting away from the path, losing it, finding it and losing it again, heading always upwards. At the top of the hill I can see down the other side over the dunes to the sea. I come suddenly upon a young couple with a dog in a sandy clearing on the hill, packing up camp. The dog runs forward barking as I approach but what I notice is the magnificent mushroom the girl has in her hand. A flash of mushroom envy must have passed across my face, at that moment.

A proud mushroom hunter.

King Bolete (Boletus edulis)

The couple have been here for a couple of days and they have kilos of chanterelles in a couple of large brown paper bags and an odd assortment of other funghi. The mushroom the girl is holding is probably a King Bolete, the prize mushroom, and this one is a beauty. I show the couple the mushroom I am uncertain of and they name it and show me the entry describing it in their book. It is supposed to be good eating.

I walk on down the hill. The forest opens out as the ground becomes more sandy until I find myself crossing the dunes, wind blowing, sand flying, silver tussocks of grass undulating, gulls crying, blue skies above. My heart always leaps as I approach the ocean. I pass through a thicket of dense low conifers and I then I am on the beach – deserted for miles in either directions with barely a human trace. I walk on the hard sand examining the offerings washed up by the tides – broken sand dollars, scraps of kelp, a fish carcass, clam shells. There is remarkably little plastic or glass.

The beach in the morning.

Scary fish carcass.

I walk along the beach until I see the sign directing me back across the dunes to where I was the evening before and return to my camp to a breakfast of mushrooms.

Breakfast - a mixture of chanterelles (chantharellus cibarius) and hedgehog mushrooms (hydnum rapandum).

The Pacific Ocean is so beautiful that it never stops surprising me.

After the racoon incident, I obviously need to replenish my supplies and I make a number of stops at various grocery stores in the towns I pass through during the day. I am irritated to discover that in the majority of regional supermarkets in the US the only thing you can reliably buy from bulk bins is candy, while things like oats are much harder to source. Buying from bulk bins means that I can control the quantity of each item that I purchase which is pretty handy with the limited space I have available in my food pannier.

I finally arrive at Beverley Beach State Park campsite late, after a long day. Night has fallen and I ride to the hiker/biker camp in almost complete darkness. The only thing I can really see is a guy standing tending a fire in the middle of an open grassy area.

“Is this ‘hikerbikerville’?” I enquire.

He admits it, somewhat reluctantly, not seemingly overly pleased to have his solitude broken. However, as I case the area in the dark for a suitable tent site he points out what he considers the most favourable position available. I pitch the tent and then address myself to the matter of dinner. My food pannier is in total disarray and I need to repackage and reorganise the new supplies before I can even think about cooking.

The guy seated at his fire behind me is silent. The fire pit is in communal space but it seems a little problematic making friends in the dark, with someone who I can’t really see. I rustle through plastic bags as I dispose of bulky packaging and place various food-stuffs into zip lock bags.

After a while he announces, somewhat irritably, that I am welcome to join him at the fire. I explain about the racoon disaster. When I have sorted the food, I cook some pasta and stir in tomato paste – not a culinary highlight, but I have no patience left to make something nicer – and go to the fire. It is cold enough to be grateful for it.

We sit side by side at a picnic table facing the fire in silence while I eat my mess.

“If you’re interested in edible mushrooms, there are a lot of lobster mushrooms around here,” the man informs me suddenly.

Mushrooms are a subject that interests me enormously but not one that I know a huge amount about. I have been mushroom hunting a couple of times before in the Czech Republic, where the pastime is something of a national passion -  rivalled, perhaps, only by beer and ice-hockey.

“What are lobster mushrooms?” I inquire, eager to expand my knowledge.

“They are red and orange – like lobsters. They are in the woods, there… and there…,” he gestures into the darkness.

I am not satisfied and press for more information. Eventually he offers to show me and so we walk, not ten metres away, to where the nearest trees are, with our torches and he points out a lumpy misshapen reddish-orange funghi. I am thrilled to have learnt a new edible mushroom – especially such a colourful one.

We return to the fire and our conversation is more animated now; we discuss mushrooms we have seen, mushroom expeditions we have been on, mushroom books. My new-found mushroom mentor describes a funghi called chicken-of-the-woods and I feel sure it is one that I have seen recently. I drag out my computer to show him the photos of mushrooms that I took in the forest around Forks. I proudly show off the takings of a particularly fruitful mushroom hunt, with my first mushroom guide, in the Czech Republic.

Eventually talk drifts to other topics and I discover that Dave makes hand-made vegan truffles for a living, in Portland. I am impressed.

In the morning, I get up early eager to search out some lobster mushrooms for breakfast – especially since I haven’t managed to replace my oats yet. I wander into the wooded area beside the my tent and immediately see numerous reddish-orange forms pushing up through the bed of needles carpeting the forest floor: there is not much searching to be done here.

Lobster mushroom (Hypomyces lactifluorum) - this mushroom is actually two: a parasitic funghi engulfs it host (a gilled mushroom - usually the short stemmed russela) forming this brightly coloured intriguing creature.

Another one.

Breakfast.

I look around for the most attractive funghi, choosing firm ones with the prettiest colouring. I return to my table with four choice specimens but I feel dissatisfied. The thrill of the hunt is lacking in this experience. I walk across the road and climb a steep bank passing a multitude of the lobster mushrooms; they no longer interest me. Clambering up the hill, there are numerous funghi that I stop to examine but none that I recognise.

Unidentified white mushrooms.

Mystery black mushrooms.

Brown funghi.

There are so many boletes that I never know which ones are good to eat and which ones are not.

Towards the top of the hill my progress is halted by a sturdy wire fence and I walk along it for a while before turning to descend. I see a flash of yellow and, scrambling over fallen logs and evading the trailing blackberry brambles, I make my way towards it. More frilly yellow circles come into view. I find myself in the middle of a sizeable patch of fresh chanterelles. Luckily, I had the foresight to bring a bag with me to collect them in.

Chanterelles are really yummy.

I make my way back to the campsite where Dave has emerged from his tent and is already cooking his breakfast. I show my find to him for a second opinion. As he examines the contents of my bag I see a flash of envy and new respect in his eyes as he confirms my identification.

Chanterelles - yummmmmy!.... this is a really good breakfast!

“Would you like to have some for breakfast with me?”

He seems a little surprised by this offer but doesn’t hesitate for long. We both voice regret at the lack of butter. We discuss cooking methods and the benefits of dry sautéing* mushrooms. Dave lends me a bigger pot as I still haven’t managed to replace my tiny cooking pot that is barely capable of feeding one adequately.

It is not long before we are sitting eating mushrooms, straight from the pot – definitely friends now, in the daylight, over a shared meal.

Dave, a new-found mushroom mentor.

After polishing off the chanterelles I remember the lobster mushrooms. I decide, in the spirit of discovery, to cook them as a second course. They do, in fact, look remarkably like lobster flesh as they cook and, while they are certainly not equal to chanterelles, they are pretty tasty.

Cooking up lobster mushrooms in my tiny pot.

Some, perhaps, are edible while others are definitely not. I wouldn’t, given my current state of knowledge, risk eating any of these. Please feel free to correct any error of identification or contribute any other information with a comment.

A classic fairytale scene. A fine example of Fly Amanita. (Amanita muscaria).

Chicken-of-the-woods. (Laetiporus sulphureus). This is, if my identification is correct, edible although it does apparently cause some gastrointestinal complaints in some people.

Possibly Shaggy Mane. (Coprinus comatus). Shaggy Mane are edible but highly perishable.

No idea on this one.

No idea on this one either but it was very pretty with all the dew drops on it.

Another unidentified funghi.

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.

Penny goes off to do some tasks while I unpack and sort out all my stuff. She returns and we go into town for a shopping trip to replenish my food stock and get some supplies for dinner, which is more superb red salmon. I need to repair one of my panniers which has holes in it – the work of a crow at Meziadin Lake. Ian assists with advice and materials for the job and finally I go to sleep in a big, warm, soft bed. Wonderful.

I was planning on leaving the following morning but the ferry to Port Hardy leaves at 7 o’clock and I would have to be at the dock by 6 o’clock. I can’t drag myself away from these kind people so fast and so I decide to stay until the next ferry on Thursday.

On a walk in the forest, Penny teaches me the names of some trees: the vegetation has changed significantly over the last section of my trip and is now almost totally unfamiliar to me. Further north it was quite similar to the Czech forest – at least I recognised spruce, larch and birch.

Penny proves knowledgeable and I am introduced now to hemlock, lodge-pole pine, Douglas fir, red cedar, yellow cedar. The berries, too, have further diversified and I learn to recognise red huckleberries, salalberries and bog cranberries. We discuss various other plants but the rest of the information doesn’t stick.

Tangled roots of a cedar (I think).

Blue huckleberries.

Red huckleberries.

Salalberries.

On Wednesday, Penny and I go on a short sea-kayak expedition. I have been in a kayak before, I know, but I can’t remember when – it was so long ago that all the details of the experience are gone completely. Still, it seems to come relatively naturally to me and soon we are paddling out a channel from Port Edward towards a small island near the mouth of the Skeena River.

Circling the island, we see a family of river otters catching large crabs and small fish.  An otter swims underwater close to my kayak. On the far side of the island, we land on a beach to have something to eat and enjoy the sunshine after a week of wet weather. Prince Rupert is the rainiest town in Canada, apparently, and people here really appreciate the sun when it shines.

Penny preparing the boats.

Kayaks are a good way to travel because you get off the road. Food for thought.

Me on the water.

In the morning, I narrowly avert missing the ferry.  Penny wakes me at 5.12, the alarm clock having failed somehow in its duty to wake me at 5.00. I had prepared and packed my things the night before so I manage to get onto my bike and cycle, in the pitch dark, across town to the ferry terminal in time to embark.

The fisherman has thawed somewhat since last night’s somewhat frosty exchange of greetings and is happy to oblige. He selects what he considers to be the appropriate weight line from his extensive collection and winds it onto a stick for me. His German wire-haired pointer is underfoot attempting to mount the small black dog, that belongs to the hunting outfitters and hangs around the campsite, with great persistence but little success.

Later, when I am putting the last of my things on my bike, the man’s wife approaches with a small bundle. Would I like a fish? The object in her hand is a small, cleaned frozen trout. A fish is not the most practical thing to transport on a bicycle in a pannier in grizzly country but my passion for eating it overcomes any logistical misgivings. Yes, please! I wrap the fish in a bag and then in another zip lock bag and hope that I don’t end up with a fishy pannier.

The day passes happily, cycling and picking berries and in the afternoon I find a nice place next to Bob Quinn Lake to cook my trout. The area is surrounded by thimble-berries, my latest berry discovery. The place is a flat grassy area flooded by evening sun and I toy with the idea of camping there for the night but decide that it is not such a bad idea to put a few miles between my and any fish cooking smells generated by my dinner.

Thimbleberries are even sexier than raspberries.

I cycle onwards and end up, at nightfall, in a dank mosquito infested ditch by the side of the road. Next morning I am up and away with no breakfast but arrive soon enough at Bell 2, a heli-skiing resort. The lodge is pretty quiet at this time of year. I replace my front brake pads and then head for the café for a cinnamon bun and coffee and then head onwards to complete 150 kilometres arriving late and hungry at Meziadin Lake.