Masset, Haida Gwaii

Waking up in, Tlell, Haida Gwaii. Wow. My hosts here, Elizabeth and Keith, seem like old friends already. We do coffee, chat. I'm eager to explore the Island. I'm going to play in Masset tonight, up in the north end of it all. That's about sixty or seventy Km, so far as I can gather– so my plan is to head out right away and spend the day exploring. I'll work my way north, find the venue, continue up to the north beach area, and head back to sound check once it gets dark. I'm off! The mists are rising out of the big trees, and the sun is teasing. Things are damp here. It rains. The sun comes out. Mist and fog swell up out of the forest. I bump down the long drive and out onto the blacktop.

It's a short run to the first beach access point and, of course, I just have to stop and have a look around. From where I'm standing, on the east side of the island, this beach runs north for at least 60km and perhaps more. It's a wild coast, with no settlements on it, no road access. I'd like to run some of this, but I'm tired, still getting over this cold, and I have a show to do tonight! Not to mention that I'm on route, so to speak, and would also need a shower. Anyway, I'm content enough to walk on this wild beach and kick some sea shells around.

Back on the blacktop, I head north. It's a very private road today. Nobody out but me, apparently.

I'm in Port Clements, and it's pretty quiet, too. I spot this quay on the edge of town, and stroll out to take in the view. Out on the very end of it I meet a town worker putting up Christmas lights. I forget how many metres he said he was stringing up, but it ran into the hundreds. We talked about kids and fishing, and which hills had logging roads to the top of them. Just a friendly moment out there in the sun.

Woodsmoke drifting across the streets of Port Clements. It's all wood heat on the Island. The Island is all about wood. There's no obvious place to buy a coffee here today, so I decide to keep rolling and head for Masset. The Golden Spruce Trail is nearby, but the story of the death of this tree is so sad I can't bring myself to walk to the scene. I head north.

Yeah, it's a Pacific island. Too far north for palm trees– but it still has the groove, the feel, the spirit. I drive around Masset and find the venue. Stopping in for lunch I spend an hour talking with a Haida "faller." The title is a job title. When he has work, he cuts trees. Big trees. Over our hour together I learn a lot about life in the camps, about the dangers of the job. About guys getting killed doing this work, about cutting trees eight feet in diameter. I wonder if this is going to be legend someday: man falling an eight foot diameter tree, dropping giants. A rite of passage with a saw. I understand that stuff grows fast and large out here, but I also understand that these big trees were already big when the first Europeans saw this place nearly 300 years ago. Our lives– like termites– nasty brutish and short. This Earth, alive without us infesting it. But I'm not here to pass judgement. I don't know much about what's going on in these boreal forests. I do know that the Haida have won significant rulings in the Supreme Court of Canada bringing them much more control over the resources here.

I'm on my way to the North Beach. It's about 40 km north and east of Masset. The wildlife is obvious everywhere. These big birds are feeding on something large and dead.

My road gets smaller, and soon there are no obvious laneways or driveways. No traffic outside of town, and I'm alone on this road today. The trees are high over the road, the coast not far to my left, and the wild marshes not far to my right.

Some kind of moss. Monkey moss, if I got to name it. This stuff is in the trees everywhere. Forming strange shapes it dresses the woods with a sense of mystery.

I catch a glimpse of Tow Hill in the distance. That's where I'm headed first. If I climb up this hill I'll be able to see Alaska off to the north-east.

My road gets smaller. I suppose it is better traveled in season, but today I am alone and am sliding on a very slippery clay base. It's a good thing I've had experience driving in mud, as well as snow. It would be a long run back to Masset for help. No cell service out here.

I park the Lincoln and walk up into the silence of the heavy forest. Rich, lush, full, damp, fragrant, whispering. There's a well constructed trail here, and I stick to it, climbing, climbing, past trees older than history, past shadows of trees, past tree goasts. I'm climbing a hill that the Haida climbed long ago. Other eyes have looked out from here. And what thoughts did they have? What thoughts do I have? Blues guy panting up a steep hill, alone in the late afternoon, on an island at the edge of the world.

Roots like blood vessels, like little fingers waiting to grab, or sleeping, sleeping for a while longer.

Half way up. It's a view alright.

I guess Alaska is out there on the horizon. And it's a big, wild ocean. You feel like you are part of the world when you are next to it. Keep going out there and you'll get to Asia, Australia, India, Africa. Bits of culture washing up on the beach, threatening to change everything. Ideas are like that sometimes. I know my life is like that sometimes. The more I travel, the more I look at the horizon. I could drive to 29 Palms in about three days from the mainland port, buy a used Airflow trailer, and live in the vacant lot behind the motel. But I have a show to play tonight. And I need to climb down from this extreme place, where thoughts and ideas drift in from the great ocean and the soft winds feed them to the trees.

A little further and I get to the North Beach road. It's not much of a road, really.

They say you can drive for 50 Km along the beach here, but there's no way in the world I'm taking my Lincoln another step out on this path. "There's a few soft spots," I was told. Yeah, I can imagine that. I can imagine the Lincoln on her belly with the tide filling her inners, drowning, lost in the crash of the salty waves.

I walk the beach. Time goes fast out here. Soon, darkness is falling. I want to get back to that slippery road, back into town. It's time, I've had a taste.

Here's a strange site. I think it's part of the old early warning radar they used to use. NATO left here a long time ago, but it appears that the CAF now keep a couple of guys here to cut the lawn. X-Files, anyone? Spooky at dusk, I gotta say.

I get back to The Ground, the cafe/gallery where I am to play tonight. It's a quick set up. I bring in the PA as I'm not sure what the turnout is going to be, and because everyone is excited about this little Yorkville Sound system. I could probably play the room without it, but it's part of the set here. It says "showtime," in these parts. I have a light dinner, after which I still have a few hours to kill before the aforementioned showtime. It gets dark early this far north at this time of year.

Across the street is the Mile Zero Pub. At this time of day it is mainly populated by an older group of Haida men and a gorgeous woman who is somebody's niece, somebody else's cousin, and somebody else's wife. At least I believe that's what the arrangement is. Everybody on the Island seems to be related somehow. I buy a beer and a shot of bar scotch- a fine, Johnny Walker Red Label– and am immediately adopted by one table with an empty seat. I'm not sure if this is a permanent "guest" chair, or whether somebody is off sick today. The other seats all seem to belong to their occupants. One of my elbow mates here is an older Haida gentleman who, over the next couple of hours, tells me a lot about his life. He used to speak Haida all the time, but finally he only had one friend to speak to, and since his friend has died he has no one to tell his thoughts to. He speaks English as well as anybody else. But he thinks in Haida. Before I leave I ask him to teach me a few words. I learn to say "thank you." How-a. He says it to me a few times. I notice he has a slightly different accent than some others I have heard using this word. The folks at this table would all like me to play at the Mile Zero, but they won't be coming across the street for the show at The Ground tonight. I bid them how-a, and am on my way.

The Ground is a nice, quite modern cafe run by some folks from away. They learned about coffee and music and art and the internet in Vancouver, I think, and then moved here to run this place. It pulls Masset in the direction it is probably growing, post military, post lumber. Environmental tourism, arts, culture. Masset is a neat little town with some smart people in and around it. There are a few waiting for the show when I wander back. Hopefully there will be more soon!

Before long it's showtime! I'm set up next to a woodstove, so I'm toasty. I've got a small but enthusiastic crowd here. We are joined at half time by a couple of RCMP officers. They love living here, and love their jobs. But they need to go back to work! The night finishes nicely, and I hang out after the show and enjoy a drink with some of my new friends. I'll be back.

On the drive back to Tlell, I spot over 50 deer on the highway. But for them, I'm alone on this road, and I drive very slowly. I don't want to wreck the Lincoln after my first gig on the Island! I weave, brake, stop. It's a long 70 km, but I arrive back at Tlell safe. It's been a great day.