Vargas

It is possibly an overused and misunderstood word; magic. But there are times when it emerges unbidden, clear and obvious and not to be ignored, lying prone in our path. We are well served to observe it's presence.
This past two weeks I have been in the company of a large group of teenagers, and two good men - a silversmith and a wayward irish mystic, wandering the shorelines and beaches of Vargas Island in Clayoquot Sound.
Objectively, Clayoquot is a magical place. It is made of cool air and fog drifts, and ancient cedars that speak of the soulfulness of the non human world. It is one of my home places, and I was lucky to be part of these trips where the objective was not to accomplish distance or challenge or push the participants so much as it was to be. Be together, in place, play, and align with the currents that run alongside the island of our dreams.

The three of us adults kept and made good company, drinking tea in absurd amounts and at every opportunity, telling stories, laughing, moving at a slow pace, never hurried. Ravens battled crows overhead, eagles squeaked like clotheslines at every campsite. The wolves circled the island daily, leaving new sign for us to inspect after each departure into sleep or day trip away from our camp. Ghosts.

On the north side of Vargas there is a cabin, cedar trunks for posts; build by a shipwright it is all windows and cedar shakes and nautical lines. It is a destination for many kayakers, and a recent home for one of the legends of this coast. John and his wife Bea and their dog Lolita left almost two years ago and the cabin and it's surrounding garden had fallen into disrepair. On our first weeks' visit to this place on the beach, the silversmith returned from an inspection of his old friends' cabin, known so well under the loving care of it's former occupants. He was disheartened - inside the floor was littered with debris, outside the garden was overgrown, neglected, untended. Perhaps there had been squatters, people who did not care for the place, but simply reaped its shelter and resources, not seeing or acknowledging the obvious and kindly spirit of the place. Not honouring its unique magic. Over tea at the campsite two beaches over we discussed the former energy of the place as it was tended with diligence and detail, the shell pathways and garden borders, the herbs, the chickens, the fish in the pond, the woodstove lit and kettle always at the ready. John's daily walks to the far end of the beach through the fog, fishing gear in hand, finding salmon off the point. Lolita the Australian Shepherd's visitations to each kayak group that alighted there, sometimes spending her days lying in the sand next to their tents, adopting each new visitor like a long lost friend. We lamented the changing ways of the world and people, and wondered how such a rare and magical place could be unlived in, unloved. Its energy dissolving into the forest. It is for sale. $1.2 million, or some such figure. A sadness lingered in the energy of the week, but also a wonder at the possibility that such a place stands waiting for its next caretaker.
During week 2 we camped again at the small pocket beach a few rocky points away. On our second last evening we decided to take the kids for a campfire and the more expansive soccer pitch offered by the unbroken sand beach. The silversmith, the mystic and I wandered up to the cabin so I could have a look this time, leaving the students to create their space on the beach.
We were met by a sea change as we came up the path. In the boathouse was a surf board, beside it a kayak. Someone had arrived. Nearing the house we sensed a shift, care and attention to detail appeared to be encroaching into the fractured space. Peeking in through the windows we noted the floors had been scoured, order restored, the paw prints of a human life showing up through a few loved objects placed on sills. A richly colourful stained glass depiction of a Raven set against the forest window, photographs on the wall. Six days after our first visit someone had moved in and leaned themselves fully into re-establishing this as a home-place, cleaning its kind spirit back into being.
A familiar face soon emerged from the rich depths of the cabin, recognition dawned on me as the tall regal figure approached. He named me first, helped me remember the connection, a number of years ago when I was living in Tofino he was one of our winter tenants at the guesthouse. German-Indian, a photographer, eking his way into life on the far west coast of Canada. Living the dream. Residency papers now in hand he has landed himself in this ethereal place on Vargas, facing away from town and into the islands of the Sound, finding a place to stay put, be.
As we left it seemed all was now right with the world, for a time at least. We emerged onto the beach to find the kids around a fire of their own creation, a fine west coast mist surrounding the warmth of their circle. All is not lost.