The Simple Life On Vancouver Island, land of logs and salmon, whales and rain, a journey along the 243-mile Old Island Highway offers insight into humble living of a much different kind. Endless Vacation, May/June 2005 By Matt Villano A light and magical mist falls as I stagger through the trees, crunching the grassy incline in front of me with every step. The summer is so close-only 300 yards away, maybe less. Still, these last few hamstring-straining steps of Mount Elma make an indoor climbing wall seem horizontal. Of all the day-hikes in British Columbia's majestic Strathcona Provincial Park, this one was supposed to be easy. Then again when you're hiking with Lindsay Elms, an ultramarathoner and perhaps the most well-known mountaineer on all of Vancouver Island, easy is a relative term. "Great day for a walk in the park, eh?" asks Elms, playfully patronizing me as I summit the mountain well off his pace. "Welcome to paradise." From up here at roughly 4,000 feet, Vancouver Island's Comox Valley spreads below us like a great, green patchwork quilt, and the 243-mile Old Island Highway, a combination of highways 19A and 19, threads through it all. Winding through oyster farms, fishing communities, clear-cuts and logging towns, the route stretches from the beaches of the Strait of Georgia to the mouth of the Queen Charlotte Strait. Along the way, these quintessential sights paint a vibrant picture of life in coastal British Columbia-simple yet splendid and completely exhilarating. My journey begins in Nanaimo, the second-largest city on the island (Victoria is the first) and about 90 minutes by high-speed ferry from downtown Vancouver. Nicknamed the Whistler of Diving, the city is known as much for what it offers below sea level as it is for what it boasts above. With the help of donations from local businesses, the Nanaimo Dive Association sunk a rusted deep-sea rescue tug to create an artificial reef across the bay. As I walk from the ferry slip toward Front Street, I use my binoculars to spot the telltale red dive flags on the surface where the ship was put under. At Ocean Explorers Diving, one of five local dive shops, I overhear fish stories for the ages: A tale about a six-foot wolf eel is topped only by one about a face-to-face encounter with a giant Pacific octopus. With stories like these, it's no wonder Jacques Cousteau rated the waters off Vancouver Island second only to the Red Sea for diving. After a quick lunch at Lila's Specialty Bake Shop, I head north on Highway 19A along what locals call the Oceanside Route. Passing through quaint beachfront towns such as Lantzville and Parksville, one coastal vista is more breathtaking than the next. I pull off at Rathtrevor Beach Provincial Park and walk along the beach to photograph some brown Brants, diminutive relatives of Canadian geese. At Qualicum Beach, I drive past the community garden to check out the Old School House Arts Centre on Fern Road. My appetite for art not sated, I'm intrigued when I drive through a town named Deep Bay, where signs for the Lighthouse Community Art Tour pique my interest and lead me to Carla Flegel's art studio next to her log cabin home. Inside, Flegal and friends welcome me with open arms. She tells me that she and her husband discovered Deep Bay on a family vacation in 1989 and simply never left. When they got here, their oldest daughter was about to celebrate her first birthday; late last year, the now teenager received her driver's license. Today when Flegel isn't managing the family business-an automotive station in nearby Bowser-she's teaching classes in folk art from her studio and organizing what has become a seasonal art tour among two dozen artists in a 10-mile stretch along the beach. "When we came to this island, I finally had the time and inclination to explore my passions and get my creative juices flowing," she explains. "Now I can't imagine life without it." Somehow I escape Flegel's studio empty-handed. The next morning, as I pass the famous Fanny Bay Oysters plant, I cannot display the same restraint and stop to grab a few oyster shells from a mound on the side of the road. I fiddle with my shells as I drive past Buckley Bay, where island hoppers catch ferries to Denman and Hornby islands, each famous for both shells and fossils. After a relaxing Pacific Mist Hydropath experience at the Kingfisher Oceanside Resort & Spa, I'm unnerved by the trappings of Canadian urbanity-espresso stands, supermarkets, and, of course, Tim Horton's doughnut shops. These all-too familiar sights serve as my introduction to Comox Valley and welcome me to perhaps the valley's most bustling town: Courtenay. Courtenay mixes big-city chic with small-town charm. On Fifth Street, the main drag, cutesy gift shops sit next to record stores and cafes. In Mountain Meadows, a retail mecca for outdoor gearheads of every age, owner Bernard Zirkl introduces me to Elms, who proceeds to take me into Strathcona for my schlep to the top. After the hike, the three of linger in the store's office, where Elms tells Zirkl about my hiking prowess. Zirkl laughs but doesn't completely believe. Zirkl's story is much like Flegel's; after bicycling through Vancouver Island on a yearlong bike trip in 1988, he decided to set his kickstand and find a home. The German-born Zirkl has lived in nearby Comox since then, participating in whatever sport he wants, whenever he wants to do it. "I don't think there's any other place on Earth where you can go bicycling in the morning, skiing in the afternoon, and paddling at night," he says. "For me, that diversity of activities and diversity of life is what I like best about this place." Diversity suits me well, too, and following a quick trip to the Courtenay and District Museum to see the fossilized remains of an 80-million-year-old elasmosaur, a marine reptile, I roll north on Highway 19A to Campbell River, where I throw a few strings of five-pin bowling and call ti a night. Campbell River is a town built on salmon. Ancient legends tell of salmon running so thick in the water between downtown and Quadra Island that a person could walk on their backs. Nowadays some people try to do just that, renting snorkel gear from a dive shop in town and heading out to the river to see salmon close-up. At sunrise the next day, I hike upriver at Elk Falls Provincial Park to witness water falling 82 feet into pools teeming with salmon. If any of these little guys think they're swimming up this stream to spawn and die, they'll be sadly disappointed. Back on the road, I turn north on Highway 19 for about 45 minutes and then exit toward Sayward, another fishing village 10 miles off the highway to the east. When I arrive, Art Pampu dodges raindrops to chat me up about the Sgt. Randally Cypress, a new British Columbia Forest Service Recreational Site at the center of an old-growth forest that dates back roughly 2,000 years. Pampu moved to Sayward in the 1980s for a job in the commercial fishing industry and eventually started the Coral Reef pub, the only pub in town. "Everybody kept saying, 'Someone ought to do something about this,' and I got tired of sitting around," he explains. "I have a real interest in the big, old trees, and I think we've got a real chance to make something of the wonderful trees we've been blessed with here." The last thing I want to do after hanging with Pampu is celebrate the logging industry, but on my way out of town, I swing by the Original Cable Cookhouse for some coffee and homemade apple pie because I'm famished. Glen Duncan, a former logger, built the place with 8,200 feet of used steel logging cable and painted it with fiberglass to keep the structure from leaking. The building, which opened in 1970, weighs a cool 57,320 pounds, and owner Lorna Duncan says the spot has become somewhat of a cult classic among locals, loggers and travelers alike. These days when she makes her famous bumbleberry pie (a delicious mixture of apples, freshly picked blueberries and rhubarb) customers line up out the door to have a taste. With a full belly, I drive another hour or so to Woss, a logging town that gets so rowdy on Thursday nights that folks who live down-island call it Woss Vegas. Woss isn't only famous for its logging; the town's logging railroad, which dates back to the 1850s as the oldest in North America, is pretty remarkable. Rail fans have dubbed one of the original locomotives the Old Gray Goose, and today the engine, emblazoned with No. 113, rests in the town square, forever a reminder of the city's past. At the Lucky Logger Pub, owner Maureen Bell notes that minor details pay homage to this history as well-while the bar itself is made of red cedar, the foot-rail is an old steel train track, plucked from one of the oldest trestles in town. From Woss, I continue north on Highway 19 to Telegraph Cove, where the four-wheel drive on my rented ChevyTahoe finally comes in handy. This tiny community began as a terminus for the telegraph line prior to World War I; more recently the grotto became home to the first whale-watching company in British Columbia, Stubbs Island Whale Watching. Today Johnstone Strait, the body of water just outside the cove, has established a reputation as the most reliable spot in the world to see killer whales. The destination does not disappoint. Within minutes of walking to the end of the short boardwalk, I spot a pod of unmistakable black dorsal fins plying the water no more than 200 feet from shore. "Whales are like deer up here-we see them all the time," quips Ilver Villani, owner of the Quarterdeck Inn & Marina resort in Port Hardy, the end of the road and the spot where I celebrate my sighting with a Caesar, the Canadian bloody Mary. "If you don't see them, you start to get worried and wonder where they've gone. They're just a part of life, I guess, just part of the whole picture." I'm still thinking about the whales and Villani's insights when I wake up early the next morning and head out for a run along the Port Hardy Nature Trail and the Quatse River Trail. About two miles from the Quarterdeck, I hear a rustling in the bushes and stop in time to watch a black bear amble slowly across the path in front of me. He snorts, looks up, and glances my way. The creature is no more than 20 feet in front of me, but as I quiver with excitement (or is it fear?), the bear puts its head down and continues into the bushes unfazed. Here on Vancouver Island, where fresh berries and salmon await, this big, hairy beast has more important things to do than fraternize with a wide-eyed human like me.