“Far away from where I live, I am home”, David Barnes Dreaming in Nuchatlitz
Where was the last place you found bliss? I am not talking about the gooey bliss of licking you favorite ice cream cone, or the lovey dovey sweet bliss of your first kiss. I am talking about the full-blown irrational abandonment of all that you thought to be important case of bliss. The category of joy of finding a place where you instantaneously forget everything. At the first breath of the place’s air you inhale the amnesia that erases all of your ‘small stuff’ troubles, and at the first sight you become conscious of what is real to you. Then, when all of this has settled down and your heart regains a more normal rhythm than when you are at home, the initial twinges of enlightenment may begin to seep in. This release of the day-to-day at home tensions can be found for me when my paddle touches Mother Ocean. Stroke upon stroke the water and scenery pass by, the winds may rise and the cool morning sun lost behind rain clouds but this is all part of my session and journey to the ultimate bliss.
I found this place by chance and without a conscious searching on a remnant of the past, a far away place from where I live where I pitched my tent towards the morning sun rise and watched sea otters playing in the phosphorescent sparkles after dark. It is an island that gives evidence of the powers of nature that make each and every one of us humbled in the shadows of earthly grandness that it takes to make one pebble. Catala Island is a pile of pebbles trapped against a ridge of rocky cliff and raked level by the elements. The landing is steep and formidable on a rougher day, but as I nudged my bow into the stones with a gentle crunch I realized to jump out now would have me standing up to my midriff in icy cold Pacific waters. I did just that. The humid air after days of rainfall felt heavy and the sun-drenched crossing from the Nuchatlitz Marine park was a relief from too much camp time under dripping tarps. I pulled my kayak up the slope feeling the aching chill from the plunge leaving my body as the radiation off the pebbled surface rose to greet me. It felt good and though I had been ‘out there’ for over a week the small stuff that should have been erased if temporarily from my soul had clung to the back of my mind. Small stuff can be sticky and no matter how much paddling, endurance of wind, rain and sun, lunching on far-flung islets facing the horizon and beers by the campfire by nightfall, it sticks.
By the time I had my tent erected and the wet gear including the fly splayed out upon the slope to the water, I was settling into a kind of pre-bliss state. I lay in my tent with the door flaps wide open, the sweat dripping down the outside of my can of beer and the moist warmth rising up from below me. Our group dynamic had faltered somewhat on this trip. Tensions rose, ebbed and lingered like the sand that builds up in the corner of the tent that with no amount of shaking will allow all of it to escape. We had gone out separate ways for a few days and the reunion cleared the air. The rain clouds parted above and within our camp. Was it the pebbles working the magic on us with the same tenacity as they had to lodging so firmly between our bare toes? Who is to say, all I know is that by late afternoon we were laying on the pebbles, gooey and silly as we picked out what we hoped to be pure pieces of Jade from the mosaic mess left behind after the crush of glaciers receded from this part of the coast. I lay face down, snoozing in a hole I had dug and only woke when a sensation of suffocation set in. I looked around me to the other three and found two of them with a mount of greenish stones in front of them and the third of our group swimming on his stomach downhill and sweeping his arms for propulsion through the pebbles like some kind of weird sea turtle returning to the sea. Giddy, and relaxed from the pebbly magic we lay silent, each owning his own measure of enlightenment about the place we found ourselves, and how far away from home we may be, this is where we truly lived.
As this is the 100th post on Kayak Rogue I would like to thank all of you for stopping by from time to time. There is more to come…