Bam!

The ascending, metallic spiralling voice of a Swainson’s Thrush slowly tugged me into consciousness.  I looked about the strange room, bewildered at my new surroundings.  I had fallen asleep eleven hours earlier and lay in a Greyhound-induced coma until now.  The thrush continued to sing his eager tune, "thiiiis is myyyyy treeeee... Aaanyone waaaaant to maaaate with me?" (Waaaaaake uuup Jeeeennn!)  I pulled the covers up to my face and stared at the ceiling, cursing the optimism of the energetic songster outside my bedroom window.  My head was plagued with random memories of the last two days...  the last three months and two days.  I didn't feel like moving.

I was now in Tofino, British Columbia; a small town on the western shores of Vancouver Island. The trees were tall, the skies were grey, and the air was damp and full of all the anxiety that comes with change. 

Float planes continuously hovered over Clayoquot Sound, either landing or taking off (the constant hum of their sputtering engines had become somewhat of a comforting white-noise).  Wave after wave of locals and tourists flooded the small streets. Both could be seen toting surfboards around, but it was easy to distinguish between those who knew how to use one and those who didn't.  The streets were lined with shops of all kinds - coffee shops, surf shops, outdoor clothing shops, second-hand shops, health food shops, souvenir and gift shops.  Restaurants, like barnacles, clustered in between the myriad stores, and squished between those were the surf schools and whale-watching businesses (all quietly battling for tourist attention).

Snow-capped mountains loomed far off in the distance, pushing their noses into the clouds.  Every now and then when the fog lifted I could steal a momentary glance. Tofino was not only plagued by warring businesses, but rain as well - and it was absolutely full of life!  Epiphytic ferns and mosses gobbed in the crooks of trees, even the houses had natural gardens dripping from their cedar-panelled siding. The grey skies provided a constant backdrop and nourished my sad-spot, but they were also the reason for the poisonous green life that covered the rooftops and mountain-sides, and caused the trees to tower at dizzying heights. I was simultaneously grateful to them and enraged at their persistence.  I missed the hot Arizona sun, and I missed my expired desert life. It was tough to grasp the reality of being back in Canada.

 

Have you ever read a really good book?  So good that as you approached the end you read faster and faster until finally you found yourself on the last page, eyes scrolling at warp speed over the final words making up the last paragraph, heart pounding, hands sweating.  The last. Few. Words. Then – BAM!

The end.

Well, Bam. Here I am in Tofino. Now what?  My desert story had come to an end - and with such rude finality. Bam! How could it be over so soon?  It's incredible how quickly life changes.  One minute you're chasing birds through the riparian cottonwood-willow plantations of the lower Colorado River valley and the next you're confronted with the unblinking face of the Canadian Rockies.  The life, the love, the family - all just a distant memory now.

This new place had me at arm’s length. It's exquisite beauty was overshadowed by a peculiar energy that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps it was a slight case of claustrophobia (induced by too much time on buses), or maybe it was just my inability to keep up with the change I had initiated. The whole purpose of the Greyhound pilgrimage was to exit my desert life slowly, romantically. I wanted to reflect graciously and say goodbye.  But instead I was kicking and screaming (metaphorically, of course), heels dug into the desert scrub.  It was just all-so-sudden. My head was a mess and I felt full and hollow all at once - full of memories and absent of any inclination as to what the future held. It was hard to swallow.

I listened to the Swainson's Thrush a little while longer then decided it was time to face the day.  I teased myself from the tangled sheets and wandered out to join the rest of the world, leaving my gob of memories behind in the gnarled bedding.  I made a small breakfast and ate it outside on the lichen-encrusted concrete steps of my friend's duplex.  I spooned into the humble bowl of oatmeal and watched  as a Bald Eagle circled overhead, vying for an acceptable spot to land.  He eventually decided on a limb in a cluster of large cedar trees growing alongside the parking lot across the street.  After perching triumphantly his head swiveled around and he stared down at me with cynical yellow eyes.  I answered his glare with a whole-grain smile.  I may have been lost out here in the Pacific Northwest, but at least the birds were familiar.