The Great Tofino Quest
by Andrew Hartnagel
I turned over hard in the tight little space, swinging my head up, craning for a breath of air. Someone thought it funny to upright my kayak and seal me in. I shoved hard against the side and flung my arms up repeatedly trying to throw of the skirt. I searched for a fabric hold and finding it, ripped it off, unzipped the cover and fell out.
I relay this story as a lesson - if you’re dreaming someone’s stuffed you in a kayak, in your struggle to get out, do not shove hard against anything or make any endeavor to rip anything off. Your tent will thank you. The next morning, as I cleaned the leaves from my face, I realized the extent of the damage wasn’t as bad as I thought and got out the duct tape. I don’t even own a kayak.
I was in prime sea-kayak country on the coast of Vancouver Island. Bald eagles feasted on salmon, orcas cruised their territory and I stood perched on a cliff with the wind in my hair wondering why I didn’t have a kayak. I reminded myself I was not there for the ocean, though it did little to help as I had no idea why I was there. I also had no idea why I was heading north on the island to a little town called Tofino.
In 1993, 12,000 people blockaded a bridge in Clayoquot Sound to protest the logging of ancient forests. They did this not for a day or two or even a month, but from April 13th to October 4th. Of the 12,000 protesters, almost 800 were arrested. I knew absolutely none of this.
It’s amazing how one of the largest environmental protests in the history of Canada was barely noticed in the U.S. This wasn’t some mere hippie roosting. It actually worked, people sacrificed and it was impressively organized. Even a central camp was established. They woke promptly at 3:45am to secure the Kennedy River Bridge by 5am. The short-term effect on the immediate logging was nil. But it brought international awareness to the little considered rainforests of British Columbia.
I had all this carefully brought home to me by a disillusioned carpenter as I wrung out my shirt under the eave of a building he was finishing. The town wasn’t the same. Hippies came in, gave a bad name to good ideas, trashed campsites and lost their heads in drugs. Now the town had banned drum circles from the beach. The middle class was creeping in. Sincerity was gone and so too was my carpenter friend to go with it. He pointed me in the direction of a fabled treehouse along the coast built by a man who had traveled the entire world afoot. Even now, he was traveling, yet people could go to his house. A true nomad.
As I zoomed through the rain on my way to the secret trail (many others had now told me about it too and with each passing story the myth grew ñ there were photographs and free spices there now) I spied a solemn hitchhiker bent in the rain. He jumped in and began to tell me of his plans to build a treehouse on the coast just south of Vancouver, complete with wind generator and all. He had been roosting in a tree near here but the forest service had kicked him out. But he remembered the original treehouse and in its inspiration, knew he could not quit. I let him off at his stop, he thanked me, and as I later discovered, palmed my jar of change (such a shame too; it said "#1 Boss" on the lid). Though I wasn’t planning to build my own house and not terribly pressed for spices, I still just had to see this thing.
I searched out the hidden shoulder by the boulder on the side of the old road and parked my faithful steed. I no longer felt like a #1 Boss, but nevertheless proceeded fearlessly into the forest. In British Columbia, the trails and streams have a habit of being one and the same. I’m not sure if this is deliberate or just a coincidental benefit, but I have to say, my feet felt nice and cool and I never once felt too hot during my half mile wade. Primal red cedars and western hemlocks loomed over me as I scraped through ferns and a strange abundance of thorns (I thought old growth didn’t have much undergrowth). My feet sunk into the fleshy ground that, thanks to another hitchhiker, I now knew contained over a thousand types of symbiotic fungi and bacteria. Now my feet would have that claim to fame as well. The trees turned to a more salt tolerating spruce and I knew I was near. At last I reached the coastline and crawled north as directed by my guides.
I never found that damned house. I imagine it's some local joke among the townsfolk there. And yet, others I met later professed its existence to their core, like some grail for us longhairs. I imagined everyone on that bridge in 1993 sniffed from its spices. And yet, not me. I saw a lot of coastline and earned many red badges of courage. I saw many noble sea kayakers paddling across smooth bays in herds of what looked from a distance like migrating crayons. From time to time a group hit a tidal current and shot backward or forward or to wherever the ocean cared to place them, but they recovered and gently pushed on. They probably saw the treehouse. And they probably saw a soggy, bewildered man standing beneath it swearing to himself. Part of me still thinks it must be out there somewhere, just around the next bend, as always.
BC Car-Free: Exploring Southwestern British Columbia Without a Car
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