by Pat Ardley
No guests were scheduled to come in that day, so we relaxed a little thinking the grizzlies would be miles away by now. Several of the crew jumped overboard for a cooling swim. I stood at the side of the dock joking with the swimmers while keeping an eye peeled for bears. “So Chase, how do you like swimming with the grizzlies?” Ha ha! The kids climbed out of the water and headed for the hot tub. Within seconds, I heard a bear-banger blast and turned to see Casey heading over to me. He shouted that there was a bear swimming just twenty feet from the float where I was standing, where the kids had just seconds before climbed out. Casey set off a couple more bear bangers then jumped in the boat and started then gunned the engine in an effort to scare the bear into turning away. When he didn’t, a dripping-wet Jessy jumped in behind him, and Casey positioned the boat to stop the grizzly from getting closer to the lodge. With Casey driving and Jessy poking at the bear’s giant rump with a paddle, the grizzly grumbled and turned to eye them, then snapped at the paddle. But they were able to herd the bear out of the bay and over to the far shore.
Later, we all had dinner in the lodge and discussed where the safest place was to be for the night. We came to the conclusion that there was really no safe place to be. Maybe up the ladder in Casey’s old attic bedroom. A grizzly wouldn’t be very good on a ladder, but it could certainly make its way up any of the sets of stairs or through any door or window. The conservation officer that Casey had spoken to in the afternoon said to be extra vigilant since the mama had found a reward. “They will be back,” the officer said. I finished dinner and opened the sliding glass door to head over to my house. Remembering to be extra vigilant, I looked both ways and there in the evening mist were the four grizzlies, fifty feet away, snuffling around looking for more tidbits. I had to do a double take, not believing my eyes. This time, we all stayed in the lodge while Casey went out and shot a few more bear bangers off. If nothing else, we were too noisy to be good neighbours, and the bears finally left. The next day, the Fisheries officer brought Casey a box of rubber bullets, designed to hurt like hell but not damage the bear. If the noise didn’t get them to leave, this was the next step in deterrents.
The bears showed themselves along the shore for another day and a half and then finally moved on. They didn’t come back that summer, but I never stopped looking over my shoulder—just in case. They seem to be too accustomed to humans, and they really weren’t bothered by us at all. My dog is on lockdown, we’re now shutting doors behind us, and the new bear spray canisters are located all around the docks within easy reach. It feels like our tranquil Rivers Lodge is under siege.
Whenever I spoke with guests, I mentioned that this was going to be my last summer at the lodge. I have decided not to run it any longer. I have put the lodge out to the universe and am confident that the right people will come along and put in an offer. Near the end of the summer, I was chatting with a group of avid fishermen on the last day of their stay. Before I knew it, I was shaking hands with one of the fellows over the price of the lodge. These men are the new group who now own the lodge. They are the type of fishermen whose eyes shine when they talk about their fishing experiences.
I love you, Dear,
Pat
No More
Dear George:
I will miss the country. But wait! First I will tell you what I won’t miss. These are the things I’m looking forward to saying goodbye to:
No more twenty-hour workdays.
No more cooking, cooking, cooking.
No more extreme fears about guest safety.
No more hassle of changing offices, moving paperwork back and forth from the lodge to town and trying to remember how to set everything up again.
No more waking up at 3 AM to check to make sure the breakfast cook is in the kitchen. Sometimes she wasn’t, then I would have to scramble to wake her and help with breakfast. Of course, sometimes it was just me! Nope. Not one more time.
No gardening in my life because I haven’t had time in the past nine years.
No more being responsible to repair boats that have broken down.
No more being responsible for forty people at a time all summer.
No more staff creating hell on water.
No more worrying about the floats sinking.
No more arranging and managing caretakers.
No more Fisheries’, halibut quota, salmon, licences.
No more little inspectors who want to make a name for themselves.
No more assholes trying to take advantage of me.
No more Canada Revenue Agency.
No more hst and gst.
No more Workers Compensation—paperwork, timing, safety rules overkill, getting crew to wear life jackets while working on the floats!
No more end-of-year paperwork—tons of paperwork.
No more Transport Canada regulations—boat rules, boat licences, boat registration, boat-driving licences.
No more Land Management—increasing taxes times twenty in one fell swoop.
No more foreshore lease rules, water rights.
No more health inspector—demanding no towels, no hand soap, must use paper towels, no-touch soap dispensers, so no more pretty shellfish hand soaps, testing water we have been drinking for the past thirty-seven years, testing everything.
No more Liquor Distribution Branch.
No sanitation levies and inspections, no more incinerator rules.
No more cooking, cooking, cooking. Even though I have always produced gorgeous food with pride.
No more eight-thousand-dollar gas bills—in one single bill!
No more otters pooping on stored furniture over the winter.
No more ridiculous, expensive insurance.
No more accounting all year long.
Did I mention cooking? No more.
Too many distressing, panic-filled boat trips. No more.
Too many edge-of-my-seat flights in small planes, in fog, in high winds, wondering will we make it before dark? Nope.
No more missing my friends all summer.
No more smiling at people when I actually feel like crying.
No more having to make decisions with no “you” to help me.
I will sorely miss the country. The wilderness. The mountains and the wildlife. I will miss the quiet of the fall, winter and spring, and the sound of an eagle skimming over my head. I will miss my inlet friends. And I will miss showing new people the spectacular scenery. I will miss so many of our guests, many of whom became like family. And long-time crewmembers who are still like family. I will miss the seals, otters and herons in my backyard. The grizzly bears … not so much. I will miss the Milky Way and the Big Dipper, which I communed with every night when I turned off the generator.
I will miss the whales. We watched whales from the shore of the lighthouse. We watched them from boats. We had both orcas and humpback whales appear at our wedding. We watched them from the front of our house float in our tiny bay. I will miss their graceful and smooth yet massive shapes as they glide out of the water, blow a fishy mist and then slide gently back in. I will miss the orcas always travelling in a group, often with little ones that somehow manage to keep up. I will miss the humpbacks, usually travelling alone, or travelling in twos.
There is something so magical in the way whales surface and take a look around. They have caught up to us before and swum beside our boat, surfacing and looking right at us as we stand holding our breath, holding the camera close instead of taking pictures. Not wanting to lose the moment by looking through a viewfinder. We have sat rocking in the flybridge at the top of Sportspage, watching an incredible dance of orcas slapping their tails, floating on the surface and hitting the water with their side fins then leaping right out of the water to twist and fall back down again with an enormous white wave that rocked our boat again and again. We have wat
ched mother humpbacks teaching their young how to jump—its mammoth form surging high out of the water only to be followed by a smaller form triumphantly pushing its head out of the water and flopping sideways. Not quite the same show of power and strength but fun to watch.
I will miss the exhilaration of catching my own fish and digging clams and pulling a trap heavy with Dungeness crabs. I will miss reaching into the ocean and plucking out dinner: mussels and clams, seaweed and kelp, abalone, rock scallops, prawns, salmon, halibut and cod! And sea cucumbers! Yes, they are gross looking but quite tasty. Oh, what feasts we have had over the years. With little more than garlic butter, a fresh loaf of bread and a few greens. Still the best meals of all. Here in town we have to mortgage the farm to buy crab, scallops or halibut. And they are never as fresh.
I will miss the feeling of pride in our accomplishments, how the lodge had a life of its own. Pride in how we kept thousands of people happy and safe over all these years. How we kept staff secure and happy through some very trying times. I will miss our bay, which is as healthy after thirty-seven years as it was the day we moved into it. I feel richer for the experience of living in the wilderness and, yes, even thankful for having had the close encounter with the grizzly bears.
But most of all, I will miss you. Love of my life, funniest, most caring, eccentric and adventurous father of our darling children. I miss seeing you walk into a room, breaking into a huge grin when you see me there. I miss hearing you call out that you are home. I miss our chats over coffee any time of day. I miss falling asleep on your shoulder. I miss your spirit and capacity to try new things. I miss bouncing new ideas off of you and feeding you new recipes. I miss having you bring me coffee in bed on your early-rising ski days … only to wake up an hour later and wonder why you brought me cold coffee … again. I miss your surprises. You, who love surprises! I miss you every day. I carry you close in my heart and thank you again for helping us through these past many years.
I’ll love you forever,
Pat
Epilogue—Il Dolce Far Niente
I did it! I sold the lodge. And now I am staying in town for the summer. Il dolce far niente is my favourite phrase from this summer. It means, “the sweetness of doing nothing.” I have excelled at doing nothing. Just sitting in the beautiful garden, watching the vegetables grow in the deluxe raised garden boxes that I built in early July to match my fence. This is the first summer in thirty-seven years where I have sat outside just to enjoy being outside. By the time the weather was warm enough to want to sit outside at the lodge, there would be a dozen crewmembers running around in all directions at once, and I could not make myself sit still when everyone else was busy.
Casey and Lindsay on their wedding day.
Jessy is now a nurse.
People have asked me again and again over the summer, “What are you doing now? What are you going to do?” My first answers were along the lines of “Wait a minute, give me some time to breathe.” This eventually turned into being able to proudly say, “Nothing, I’m just watching my vegetables grow.” No guilt, no apologies, no explanations. I have sat in my Adirondack chair, which I also built at the beginning of the summer, and read stacks of books. When my eyes get tired of the close-up work, I turn them to look at the vegetables and the flowers and the apples in the tree above me. Such sweetness of doing nothing! I am grateful and I am happy.
Me, happy at home with champagne and berries.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Peter Vassilopoulos, author and coastal boater extraordinaire, for encouraging me over the past forty years to write our story. And thank you to author and instructor Ivan Coyote for suggesting that I “just write, and keep writing; that eventually the words would take shape.” Thank you to author Stella Harvey for suggesting that “now you must finish it.” I am grateful to the ladies of my writing group who supported me through the writing process. Thanks to John and Jenny Salo who assisted with names that had been lost in the recesses of my mind. I would like to thank Peter Robson and Derek Fairbridge for their editing help and their encouragement; it has been fun working with you. And thank you to my dear Jess for her pre-editing, for her reading, listening, laughing and crying with me.
Grizzlies, Gales and Giant Salmon
Settling in at Addenbroke Lighthouse
Grizzlies, Gales and Giant Salmon
Gardening, Chickens and Can You Really Eat This?
Clams, Tools and Protecting the West Coast’s Inside Passage
Building the House at Dawsons—Part One
Building the House at Dawsons—Part Two