North to Alaska: Rocks and Canneries

Caution: nudity ahead ... or just bad legs ...

“Ohio” rock was hit by the ferry boat Ohio years back; a quick decision was made to run her aground in Carter Bay to reduce the loss of life. All that remains is a float marking the spot; nature has taken the bay back.

We stopped in at the Canadian Fishing Company cannery. The caretaker used to work here in the 1970’s before it closed down. In the original days, water used to operate everything; now the vintage 1912, pelton wheels turn the shaft through the massive, old DC generator to a V-belt driven, automotive alternator; the power lines run down the hill to the community building where the caretaker lives; lots of 12 volt batteries, canned goods, pictures, paintings and BC’s largest collection of VHS movies. It looks comfortable enough for a hermit … chances of attracting female company would be slim given the house keeping ... the resident dog and cat were well fed and friendly. Nature is reclaiming the site slowly; roofs are falling in; buildings are sliding off of foundations.

Speaking of sliding, Robin, in celebration of his 49th wedding anniversary today (and William’s 51st) tried to end it all by sliding across the wet ferns into the abyss; right ankle somewhat damaged. Given our level of medical expertise, we offered to put Robin out of his misery with the flare gun; he chose Tylenol. Stan offered one of his anchors for a burial at sea (we are prepared for everything). We’ll see how he fares ... it would be a shame to waist that anchor ...

The favorable tidal current we have enjoyed turned on us today; rather than the usual one knot push we have a one knot drag. We are closing in on Hartley Bay, an Indian village; the wharf was installed by the Canadian government and the tribe lets us stay for free. The basin and docks are filled with variations on a fishing fleet; we are the only sail boaters. We must be getting close to Alaska because the mosquitoes are huge and numerous; gin and tonic on the wharf in the rain; Sue is preparing dinner.

News from home is bad concerning my father-in-law, so I will exit to San Francisco. We are only ninety miles from Prince Rupert; this would be a short drive if there were a road. The armada will be there in two days; the quickest and most expensive route is a charter flight; the ferry, Tsimshian Storm, runs today for $45. The armada sails off and I wave from the dock; a little later I will pass them storming along at twenty five miles per hour. A hike from the Prince Rupert ferry dock to the Highliner Hotel for the airport shuttle; then onto the ferry to Digby Island where they hid the airport. My flight is a red eye with a night in the Calgary airport terminal.