The road less cycled

Travel Writing – English 215

Landon-Sealey is his last name. James o’ the Land an’ the Sea. We first meet him when his portly little brown van swoops down on us as we walk along the main road to Fulford. Fulford is one of three main villages on Saltspring Island, the largest being Ganges and the other Vesuvius. James, in the way of a true Saltspring Islander, seems to have determined that any young man and woman with large backpacks walking at the roadside are undoubtedly in need of a lift, despite the absence of raised thumbs. He asks if he can help us get somewhere and we say “Yes, we’re on our way to Salt Spring Seeds on Blackburn Road, are you going near there?”

“I can take you to right to Blackburn Road,” he replies.

That’s good enough for us. Judging by the scale of the map it’s a good forty minute walk to Blackburn and another fifteen to Salt Spring Seeds, so we gladly hop in the back, noticing with amusement at the ubiquity of hitch-hiking here that another traveler gets out as we get in. Jubilantly I exclaim, “Saltspring Island – no thumbs required!” and settle into a squatting position. The back of the van contains a mattress in place of seats, a bag with a carton of fresh eggs that I’m advised to be careful of, some potatoes and assorted produce, and a copy of Watership Down. James and the friend who occupies the passenger seat have evidently been shopping at the famed Saturday Saltspring Market, and they’re now on their way back to the town of Fulford. I’m traveling with HH, my hiking partner from last summer and one-time whirlwind girlfriend, and both being intuitively conscious of hitch-hiking etiquette, (though on some of the other hitches we receive this weekend we do commit the foolish mistake of allowing her to enter the vehicle first), we strike up conversation with James and his friend. One of the rudest things you can do as a hitch-hiker is to show your gratitude by morosely sitting in the back until the ride is over.

I’m asked the obligatory question about where we’re from, and respond that “We’re here from the Fraser Valley and on our way to the Saltspring Organic Seed Company, where I had hoped to intern over the summer, and although I won’t be working there because Dan (the proprietor) has enough people now, we’re here because I felt like coming to Saltspring anyway just to see what it’s like.”

“Oh yes? I actually work there, at Saltspring Seeds, on and off” James’s friend, whose name I don’t catch, chimes in with this surprising statement.

“Oh? So you know Dan Jason?” I ask.

I get a nod in reply. “I’m not sure if he’s there today though – you could be out of luck.”

James doesn’t say much, he’s concentrating on driving, but his friend chats with us about life on the farm and the work he does there, so right away we have something in common, though as we’re let off at Blackburn Road, I have the distinct impression that we had something in common with James Landon-Sealey and his friend the moment we stepped into their van. Later we’re to find out that in fact, we have more in common with James than we could have guessed.

As we walk up Blackburn Road, with great glee and soaring spirits at the freedom bestowed by Saltspring generosity, we indulge our writing instincts by discussing the possibilities.

“Saltspring Island: No Thumbs Required will be the title of an article,” HH states resolutely.

“Yes, that is rather perfect,” I agree. “And we could do a Hitchhiking 101, or Hitchhiker’s Etiquette as well.”

“Yeah, because we’re experts now, aren’t we?”

“Oh yes,” I emphatically agree. “We’ve got this down to an art – nothing to it all, just keep your thumbs in your pockets and you’re bound to get a lift.”

We revel in the scenery, and the silence, and talk quietly of books and poetry and hitch-hiking. In passing a golf course, I propose excitedly that “Maybe we can get in a few holes of golf!”

HH is less than enthusiastic over this suggestion, saying scornfully that “golf is for odd people in plaid pants and funny hats.”

Catching my eye, she bursts out in laughter as she notices the pants and Ravine Park Salmon Hatchery baseball cap I’m wearing – the pants are actually tweed, not plaid, but at the moment the distinction is lost on us, and I give her a light shove: “You said that on purpose!”

“No, I didn’t, honest!” A sparkle appears in her eyes, and I believe her because you can’t look in those eyes and do otherwise. I join in the laughter, and of course we don’t end up golfing and it’s for the best, as in all honesty golf is nothing more than paying a lot of money for somebody to manicure a piece of turf and use bucket loads of pesticides so you can smack a little white ball around, when you could be reading Kerouac or cycling or making music or writing poetry or any number of useful things. (see comment below – this golf course is ORGANIC).

Presently we come to Saltspring Seeds, and as we enter the driveway a lady from the Yoga Centre which shares the property stops as she’s pulling into the driveway and enquires as to what we’re doing there. We explain, and she politely but firmly tells us the farm proprietor – Dan Jason – isn’t there that day, and she can’t offer us a place to camp. Probably the experience of backpackers arriving spontaneously on the doorstep is a common one, and she’s learned that to avoid being overwhelmed it’s best to turn them away and enforce a consistent standard. We amble around a bit and admire the lotus-shaped garden beds and Hindi figures on a bench and the serenity of the setting, but leave quickly and take another route back to the city of Ganges, on foot this time. We won’t get the chance to meet Dan Jason, proprietor of Saltspring Seeds and author of several books on seed-saving, back-yard food gardening, and living a holistic lifestyle, on this trip.

Back in Ganges, we realize it might be useful to have a tarp, as we have only one twenty year old semi-water proof pup tent. We have chosen a site with good cover on the unselfish advice of the proprietor of another campsite, but still feel the tarp would be useful and set out to find one, but arrive too late at Mouat’s hardware, and as we’re too late in the evening for the bookstore and the tourist information centre as well, we walk to the campsite and set up for the night. I’ve inexplicably lost my newly purchased Mountain Equipment Co-op tent somewhere between the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal and the Long Harbour terminal on Saltspring, an incredible feat that casts a shade of doubt on the impeccability and innocence of my intentions. It’s true however, I’ve genuinely misplaced it despite the appearance of this being an elaborate scheme to gain some “proximity”, so we resign ourselves to the awkward necessity of sharing a one person pup-tent. HH remarks stoically “Well, that modifies our sleeping arrangements,” and I nod impassively. (Later we would find the tent on the passenger side of my vehicle). For me the flame hasn’t died, and I’m not looking forward to this in the slightest – what kind of sardonic sense of humour does the universe have anyway, to put us in this situation!?

We enjoy a relaxed evening at Moby’s, the pub on the bay where last summer HH’s sister instigated a riot among the locals by asking about a controversial and mysterious character named Wolf. Here the night-lights make the water sparkle and shimmer among the gently rocking, sleeping boats, and dreams of piracy and adventure in stolen boats course through our heads while the Canucks lose 7-1 to Calgary to cap off a failure of a season that is nearly irrelevant to me. Afterwards we stroll back through Ganges and then stumble back through the woods to our camp-site, only mildly inebriated. The darkness obscures the way, and the little wind-up flashlight we possess is only of minimal help, but we grimly soldier on, and after several wrong turns eventually manage to locate our camp, in part due to a white Darth Vader-like insignia spray-painted on the side of an outhouse acting as a marker. The Force is with us, and we sleep amidst a raucous chorus of tree frogs, tossing and turning and shivering, refusing to unearth buried passions.

It’s 10:00 the next morning, and we stride into the coffee-house headquarters of the Saltspring Coffee Company, where HH spots James o’ the Land an’ the Sea quietly scribbling away at a notepad and sipping a cup of jasmine green tea. I buy a cup of ginger green tea and sit down to devour a sandwich I’ve brought from home, forgetting where I am and that this might be inappropriate until HH gently reminds me. We slip outside where we can eat our own food without feeling guilty, and are glad to be joined by James, with whom we chat amiably, each glad for the company. We’re eager to learn firsthand about Saltspring and he’s obviously thrilled to learn more about us. Gentle creases line his weathered face, and wispy hair hangs down around his ears. He wears a magnificent hand-woven woolen sweater, which we learn he obtained on a trip to Mexico, and we discover that James is an Abbotsford refugee and former UCFV student. Immediately we begin fondly sharing anecdotes about current and former UCFV instructors, from “Ice Queen” Myriam Nichols to the talented Tim Herron. We share our respective educational pathways and discuss beat literature and then we share poetry while throwing chunks of bread to the bold, beady-eyed crows and a dainty little female house sparrow. I feel as if I’ve discovered a kindred spirit in James, and as HH and I get up to leave, we all share e-mail addresses, and I’m assured that should I ever come back to Saltspring, I’d be more than welcome to stay at James’s place. I’m thrilled to hear this – I’m of the firm opinion that to have friends scattered round the world is of more value than life insurance, a hotel, and deep pockets put together.

Who knew British Columbian ferries were capable of whirling passengers to a different world? A world where the gentle wash of rolling ocean meeting stony bluffs permeates the nooks and crannies of the humble towns? A world where the pace of life slows to a walk, and people quietly go about their business, minding the numerous shops which line the main street – a main street which isn’t a ramrod straight four lane pedestrian hazard zone dotted with traffic lights, gigantic parking lots, strip malls, and fast food restaurants like you’ll find in many a modern city, but rather a meandering, pedestrian frequented roadway with numerous crosswalks, where drivers consider pedestrians when turning, and all sorts of specialty shops line the sidewalks – music outlets, art stores, a library, natural food stores, chocolate and gelato shops, coffee shops, and even a cobbler. The people here are easygoing and genuine and passionate, loving their beautiful island and all that it has to offer. Tall, lush trees watch the city from the hills, and as we reluctantly depart this island and sail back across the Salish Sea, we know that someday we’ll be back.

Driving back from Tsawwassen, we fill the car with softly lilting Irish tunes from a CD we found lying on the beach at Grace Point, as if by magic unopened, still packaged in plastic, and only slightly wet. It’s truly a gift from the universe. I drive slowly without talking, because speed no longer matters. Time is eternal and can’t be hurried and the music says all that there is to be said.