British Columbia’s Inland Passage
Last night we entered Canada. There were no barriers to our passage. Only a line on a chart and a sequence of numbers on the GPS indicated we had left Southeast Alaska behind. Without these aides to navigation we might never have noticed a change for mountainous islands still buffered us from the sea and inviting waterways still beckoned us onward. The land still looked the same. Only the arrival of a tiny plane bearing customs officials (and specially ordered made-in-Canada treats) indicated the reality of political boundaries.
We can look back now and read our fortune for the day in the fire of the rising sun. The land stood black against the crimson glow, as black as the face of the wolf that turned to stare into our eyes. He moved like a shadow merging with the contours of stumps and logs along the shore. A grizzled wash draped over his shoulders and faded into dark forelegs. He might not have been seen except for his avian companion. Raven, glistening ebony, bounced from tree to tree and tree to grassy beach, his wings flared like dark streaks in the clouds. Does he find the prey that the wolf can then kill?
Clouds cascaded between the mountains of Princess Royal Island, a cataract in an intangible form. They condensed into reality as silvery ribbons between dense forest stands or as massive pouring sheets tumbling from rocky ledge to polished ledge, a backdrop to the aged and decaying cannery of Butedale. Glacially sculpted granite peaks embraced high bowl like cirques where mountain goats prowled. Threads of moisture from above channeled into rivulets and streams and the roaring waterfall at Oatswish Inlet. Between sheeting flows a tiny American dipper clung, periodically plunging into a momentary pool or riding the rapids in its own version of an amusement park thrill.
Written in the clouds of morning were the narrow channels of Fjordlands Marine Park, calm and yet wild. We were alone on our floating island and the golden glow of exploration warmed our day.
Last night we entered Canada. There were no barriers to our passage. Only a line on a chart and a sequence of numbers on the GPS indicated we had left Southeast Alaska behind. Without these aides to navigation we might never have noticed a change for mountainous islands still buffered us from the sea and inviting waterways still beckoned us onward. The land still looked the same. Only the arrival of a tiny plane bearing customs officials (and specially ordered made-in-Canada treats) indicated the reality of political boundaries.
We can look back now and read our fortune for the day in the fire of the rising sun. The land stood black against the crimson glow, as black as the face of the wolf that turned to stare into our eyes. He moved like a shadow merging with the contours of stumps and logs along the shore. A grizzled wash draped over his shoulders and faded into dark forelegs. He might not have been seen except for his avian companion. Raven, glistening ebony, bounced from tree to tree and tree to grassy beach, his wings flared like dark streaks in the clouds. Does he find the prey that the wolf can then kill?
Clouds cascaded between the mountains of Princess Royal Island, a cataract in an intangible form. They condensed into reality as silvery ribbons between dense forest stands or as massive pouring sheets tumbling from rocky ledge to polished ledge, a backdrop to the aged and decaying cannery of Butedale. Glacially sculpted granite peaks embraced high bowl like cirques where mountain goats prowled. Threads of moisture from above channeled into rivulets and streams and the roaring waterfall at Oatswish Inlet. Between sheeting flows a tiny American dipper clung, periodically plunging into a momentary pool or riding the rapids in its own version of an amusement park thrill.
Written in the clouds of morning were the narrow channels of Fjordlands Marine Park, calm and yet wild. We were alone on our floating island and the golden glow of exploration warmed our day.
