After reading someone describe the beauty of where he or she lived, I wrote a PM to say I saw their corner of the world and I agree. After finishing it, I decided it rambled too far from the point. I intended to chop and mould it into something more suitable when time permitted. Then I forgot about it.
I stumbled across it recently and I cannot remember who it was written for.
If anyone on this thread lives in Washington, this post’s for you…
I just learned you live in Washington. We vacationed near there a year or two ago, but other than sailing through the Strait of Juan de Fuca we didn’t get a chance to see it up close. We were sailing from Florida to Alaska. The ship had left San Francisco, and its next stop was Victoria, on Vancouver Island, Canada. Judging by what we saw, the terrain is very different from what we have at home in Ontario. We thought it was beautiful.
I don’t like travel, and try to avoid it as much as possible, while The Commander loves travel. I have no desire to hold him back, and thankfully, he doesn’t insist on pushing me. We found a compromise: I agree to accompany him for less adventuresome journeys.
When we visited Victoria, we fell in love with the city, and later, we decided to return for a longer visit.
After making our travel plans, we discovered that close friends, would be visiting relatives in Vancouver at the same time. Since a brief ferry ride joins Vancouver with Victoria, we arranged to meet for lunch. I can’t describe the excitement of finding myself a few thousand miles from home and being able to share lunch with friends. It was magical.
The nearest ocean to where I live is the Arctic. Because the Atlantic is far closer than the Pacific, we tend to think it’s closest, but in reality, it isn’t. With distances to salt water measured in thousands of miles, the sea plays a very small role in our lives. Finding ourselves on the oceanfront was a new experience. We were able to walk along the pier and admire boats from only a few feet. We saw live crabs for sale at dockside and spoke with people who made their living at sea. The gulls were twice the size we expected.
Looking across the water, we could see the Olympic Mountains in Washington State. I’ve never seen mountains. I wanted a closer look. The Commander has seen the Swiss Alps, The Canadian Rockies, the Himalayas, and the Andes. The highest mountain I’ve ever seen was in Ireland, which stood at 3,414 feet. I not only wanted to see a mountain up close; I wanted this closer look to be free of effort and hardship. We began looking for a mountain we could climb with our Honda rental car, and I strongly preferred the road to have smooth pavement the entire way to the top.
A few inquiries later, we had our plan. There was a resort on top of Malahat Mountain called The Aerie, aerie.bc.ca about an hour’s drive away. Judging by their literature and conversations with the local people we met, the place sounded perfect. The Commander booked a visit for a few days and we headed out of the city.
We arrived, inspected the facilities, and settled in. That evening, as we were about to select our table in the dining room, a staff member suggested we might want a fjord view. He sat us at a bay window overlooking a breathtakingly beautiful vista. We could see down the entire valley to the water below. The sun reflected off a small boat making its way to the ocean. The sky was taking on spectacular hues as the sun began setting. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the mountain began changing into a much darker palette, eventually achieving total darkness.
I’ve experienced city darkness, where one can walk at night, and almost read. Rural darkness is so much different: with no moon, it’s really black, but the horizon glows from nearby towns. Now I’m seeing mountain darkness, which gives a new meaning to the black of night. No wonder astronomers build telescopes in places like this!
I slept in late the next morning. (Late for me, anyway) I decided to skip breakfast and test the water in the pool. I began reflecting on the panorama that we enjoyed the previous evening. The morning encore as the sun was rising was an unexpected delight. With the guilt of my indulgence in the dining room finally washed away by the swimming, I found a comfortable corner to relax and enjoy the show. The Commander had brought me a tray of coffee and muffins and placed them on a small table he found next to the “No Food in the Pool Area” sign. He pulled a chair to the edge of the water and made himself comfortable.
Bang! Bang, Bang, Bang. Bang-Bang-Bang-BOOM! What was going on? The Commander’s immediate investigation determined that the resort was a short distance from a shooting range. Imagine putting these two facilities alongside one another! However, here we were, right in the middle of what sounded like a World War. I sent The Commander to deal with it.
The Commander disappeared. Because he took our green rental Honda with him, leaving me stranded. Lunchtime was approaching and I was getting hungry. The shooting, which continued for what seemed like a couple of hours, had stopped. Did they shoot him and were now quietly burying the body? I didn’t want to eat alone, and I didn’t want to wait either. I was stuck. I changed into something more appropriate for the dining room and hoped he would appear soon. It’s not like him to forget mealtime.
Eventually, he arrived. There would be no more shooting. Apparently, police forces throughout the area use this nearby facility to prove their proficiency. This only happens once or twice a year. The Commander began chatting with the man at the range and they both lost track of the time. I should’ve guessed this, because it happens frequently. Also, across the road from where we were staying, there’s a Bed and Breakfast called The Prancing Horse. prancinghorse.com The proprietor owns a Ferrari. (This explains the Prancing Horse name.) The Commander decided to drop in, to talk of cars, mountain roads, and whatever else men talk of when they first meet. The man wasn’t home, but his mother was, and she showed The Commander her son’s car, a yellow Testarossa, or red head, if the name were translated into English.
We only stayed on Malahat Mountain a couple of days. The weather wouldn’t be co-operating. We were enchanted with the views, the wonderful air, and the night sky, but rain promised to compromise this. I wanted my last memories of The Aerie to be the joy we experienced on Malahat Mountain and not dashing across the parking lot with raindrops beating our umbrella and searching for the openings in our jackets.
We decided to take a shortcut back to the city. This shortcut meant we’d cross the inlet on the Provincial Ferry, saving a good many miles, but taking just as long, or longer, in time. Heading toward the landing, I offered to peel oranges for us. The Commander declined from accepting my offer, and said he planned to have lunch in cafeteria once we boarded the ferry. I expressed doubt about the ferry having such facilities, but he insisted on following his plan.
When we arrived at the pier, we had just missed the last sailing by a minute or so. We were first in line for the next, and we had a few moments to relax. A young girl had brought a wagon with coffee and sandwiches to sell to the waiting motorists. I commented that her business plan wasn’t very sound, given that she was competing against the dining lounge on board. My husband didn’t take the bait. Soon enough, the ferry approached, landed, and cars disembarked. It held about a dozen. Finally, we were waved forward. As we boarded, I pointed to what appeared to be one of the workers’ lunch buckets, and remarked to The Commander that he was right all along: there was food aboard. I found this far more amusing than he did.
I continued needling him about his plan of eating on-board. I asked him if he brought formalwear or planned on getting by with just a dark suit. I reminded him that chefs often require some notice if diners plan to order Chateaubriant. I rubbed my tummy and said I was looking forward to poached salmon and wondered aloud about appropriate appetisers and wine. What added to my amusement was that the ferry was so small there was insufficient room for him to open the door, and escape my teasing. What a wonderful treat: catching his error and seeing him trapped. It was worth the whole trip. I became hoarse from laughter. (He’s an incredibly good sport about this sort of thing, fortunately for us both.)
With my orange finally peeled, I reached for the roadmap. Holding it up as if it were a menu, I said that the chef’s special looked tempting: Duck L’Orange, prepared Sans Canard. Teasing him further, I raised my clear plastic cup and began to swirl the water as if it was some vintner’s finest stock. I alternated between mocking British and French accents. He was beginning to get a bit testy. He was also hungry, and began helping himself to a few segments of my orange.
As we approached the pier, I commented that this would be an awkward time for our car to balk. As I said this, I caught him glancing in the mirror at the cars jammed behind us. An equal number were also waiting on shore. It started without difficulty, and in a moment, we were ashore and on our way.
We visited a botanical garden on the way back to Victoria. It’s amazing what grows when copious rainfall combines with mild winters and fertile soil. My husband isn’t a great flower aficionado. I doubt he’d know a rose from a daffodil. I love flowers and I point them out to him constantly. He’s pointed out dandelions, not recognising them as weeds, and thinking they were being cultivated. I found some wonderful examples of flowers that I can hardly get to grow at home. He found a place to buy beer.
I began my post wanting to say that I’ve visited close to where you live. I felt that such a stunningly beautiful corner of North America deserved more than a few words or a few lines.
Cheers, PW. |
