V is for Vancouver Island

As the ferry came into the harbor at Victoria, BC, Canada, the ornate government buildings stood tall on the shore. Sylvia, Trudy, Judy, and I were about to land on the soil of Vancouver Island, our next big motorcycle adventure.

Parliament Building

 From Port Angeles, Washington, we boarded the ferry that would take us 90 minutes across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to our destination. Our motorcycles tucked in and safely tied down below, we sat out on the upper deck this September 2000 day and visited with other ferry riders.

We checked in at Hannah’s House, a cozy and homey private hostel in a residential neighborhood. Hannah’s was a better choice for us than the huge hostel in downtown Victoria.  It seemed that we and our bikes would be safe.

Google Image

First up on our sight-seeing agenda was the legendary Butchart Gardens. None of the brochures we’d seen did justice to this gorgeous, world-renowned floral garden. Originally, the family-owned operation had been a limestone quarry. But, when the limestone gave out, Mrs. Butchart decided to transform the grounds into something beautiful. She sure did! 

Leaving Buchart Gardens and on our way to other sites, we met with stretches of gravel roads. Judy navigated us through using a “map” drawn in a tourism brochure. Not the most accurate or drawn to scale, it did give us a rough idea and eventually got us to Mile 0, Victoria BC.

We covered the entire island, from Mile 0 to the northern tip at Port Hardy and back. Along the way, we stayed in a tree house at the hostel on Salt Spring Island. 

It was a one-room affair, that accommodated all four of us, and had a tree growing right through the center. At this hostel, we were introduced to the "environmental toilet."  The hostel directors informed us that minimal toilet paper and a scoop of peat moss needed to  go in before closing the lid.

 

After a night in the treehouse, where the house boards creaked and moaned in the wind, we spent the day in the village of Ganges at the Saturday Market. Lots of arts and crafts and the best doggone ginger cookies you'll ever taste. They were the size of salad plates; a big slab of crystallized ginger adorned the tops.

Several other highlights enriched the Salt Spring Island Saturday Market experience. A group in full Scottish regalia played the bagpipes. And, a flashy vocal group called the “Raging Grannies” roused and informed us with their songs protesting clear-cutting and genetically engineered foods.

At Port McNeil we caught the ferry to Alert Bay and our oceanview hostel. Originally, it had been the Alert Bay United Church but was converted into a hostel in 1991.

Alert Bay is the home of the 'Ngamis - First Nation. We started our full day there with a visit to U'mista Cultural Center, where we saw a video on the history of the village and the persecution of the Native People by the Provincial Government. 

U'mista Cultural Center at Alert Bay

 Potlaches, which included dancing, feasts, and gift-bestowing, were outlawed by the Indian Act of 1884. When the people refused to stop these events, the government arrested them and confiscated their most precious artifacts, masks, ceremonial dress, carvings, and coppers. Deemed these "potlach paraphernalia," the items were sent to various museums. They were finally returned to the people in the early 1980's on the condition that a museum would be built to house them. The community got together and built U'mista, which means "coming home.”

Not allowed to enter the century-old ‘Ngamis burial grounds, we viewed it from a main street in the village. Memorial totem poles depicted family crests and commemorated deceased members of the Kwakwaka’waka.

Big Halibut Man

 Along our route back to Victoria, we stopped in Nanaimo. The second largest city on the east coast of the island, one of its claims to fame is the Nanaimo Bar, a delicious “fridge cake” that comes in many varieties, several of which we had to sample.

Exploring beautiful Vancouver Island made my affinity for Native People even stronger. It was encouraging to see their traditional ways being preserved and passed along to their youth. Vancouver Island is a place that still lingers in my heart.

~ xoA ~

S is for Sydney

An extension of our New Zealand motorcycle tour in 2000, Judy and I spent ten days in Sydney, Australia. With too little time to see other long-admired, but distant Australian sites, we concentrated on doing one area well. 

We quickly found a room through the Original Backpackers Hostel at their sister hotel, the Bernly, which was well-located, in the middle of everything at King’s Cross. The train station was up the block along with internet sites, cafes, bus stops, X-Rated establishments, and even a big grocery store in a shopping mall.

Week-long transportation passes gave us unlimited use of the trains, buses, and ferries. Those passes proved to be a great investment as we could get all over the city and outlying areas. Sometimes, we just hopped on a ferry to anywhere so we could explore new areas and catch cool breeze while we were at it.

There was plenty to see in Sydney. The city was to host the 2000 Olympics in the fall, and we visited several venues at the Olympic Village, including the Aquatic Center. Manly Beach, Taronga Zoo, and the Sydney Aquarium at Darling Harbor were also on our list. 

We toured the Sydney Opera House, that spectacular iconic building with many steps, heavy concrete work, and miles of glass and tiles.  Those "winged" roofs are all tiled. While there, we overheard the symphony orchestra rehearsing. The next evening, dressed in our fancied-up motorcycle gear, we saw a musical called “The Sunshine Club.” The play told of the Aboriginal people enduring continued prejudice and segregation after they returned from fighting side-by-side with the white Aussies during WWII, similar to America’s black soldiers. But, it was a treat to experience an outstanding performance in the Drama Theater of the world-renowned Sydney Opera House.

No trip to Sydney would be complete without climbing the Sydney Harbor Bridge. Yes, there’s a tour for that. Even though we stood atop the highest girders at the summit of the bridge, where the New South Wales and Australia flags fluttered in the wind, we were ultra safe. 

 

The guides prepared us well. Before stepping onto the bridge itself, we saw a video about what to expect and were given a breathalizer test.  The tour company provided a special one-piece jumpsuit, and after removing all jewelry and emptying our pockets -- nothing to flap, fly off the bridge, or catch on a protrusion -- we were almost ready. Then, the safety equipment:  adjustable waist belts with a fail-safe latch that would hook onto and slide along the safety cable during the entire climb. Next we moved the length of a simulated section of the bridge so we could learn about the step climbing and how to travel along the cable with our tethered latch.

 

The climb would take us 1,439 steps. Our route traversed the approach span and catwalk, then over the north half of the bridge to the summit, across the bridge and back.  We walked and stood above eight traffic lanes, two pedestrian walkways, and two train rails.  Whenever a train crossed beneath us, we could feel the vibrations in the handrails.

 

The views were absolutely spectacular on this pleasantly-warm, breezy day, and the clear skies afforded us panoramas all the way to the Blue Mountains.  Since no one was allowed to take their personal cameras, our guide would stop us occasionally and take individual and group pictures.

By the time we reached the summit, we were old hands at this climbing thing and were able to release the handrails from our clutches and walk spryly along the catwalk as we returned to our starting point.  The Bridge Climb was great fun and, though the idea of it was stressful, it felt safer than some our street-crossing ventures.

Though our time in Sydney was brief, it was chock-full of history, new knowledge, adventures and sights,  and encounters with unusual characters -- human and four-legged.  

~ xoA ~

F is for Forks

 All travel educates. The traveler learns about other places in the world, people and cultures, about herself, and important life lessons. Well before the Twilight Saga, in the fall of 2000, a big lesson surfaced in Forks, Washington. It happened the last night out on a motorcycle trip.

Judy rode two-up with me, and our friends Sylvia and Trudy rode their own bikes on this adventuresome excursion all over Vancouver Island. We’d been staying in hostels along the way and were looking for one on the Olympic Peninsula.

In the handy hostel guide book, one was listed just south of Forks, WA, called the Rainforest Hostel. It seemed to be the answer to our prayers. We would get there to make sure we had a spot then ride back the five miles or so to the Hoh Rainforest. But, we were mistaken.

With many stops and a picnic in Olympia National Park, the ride took longer than we’d anticipated. It was almost dark when we pulled into the Rainforest Hostel, which turned out to be a private home. The owner, a smallish older man named Joe, greeted us at the door. His mangy dog sat back a little ways, and I thought the odor I smelled must be the dog.

Joe showed us the sleeping quarters, through the messy kitchen with overflowing countertops, to the attached garage, which had been set up for hostelers. There were four sets of bunk beds standing on the bare concrete slab. We looked around to see gigantic piles of laundry spilling off the unmade beds. Stammering an apology, he said he hadn’t had time to fold it or to get the beds ready. “We can do that,” I said, “but first we need to go get something to eat.” So we paid the man and took off to find dinner.

Each of us had doubts about the hostel, but none of us voiced our feelings. We were tired and hungry, there was a scarcity of towns along the coast, and we’d rarely seen any motels, none with vacancies. We really didn’t have an alternative.

Returning after a bite to eat, we set to work folding the laundry, joking that Joe must have saved it up all month, waiting for us. Now we had time to notice the uncleanliness of the entire place. Floors hadn’t been swept; dog hair was everywhere, and the carpets were matted with debris. None of us touched anything in the kitchen.

                                                                                    

Judy volunteered to test-drive the shower. When she came back, we learned that she’d showered in her flip flops so as not to be contaminated by the filthy bathroom rugs and the grime-encrusted tub. The rest of us took her words to heart and only used the facilities for the bare minimum, touching no surfaces without a barrier.

We’d agreed that we would be up early the next morning and out of there. As we carried our bags out to our bikes, a sleepy Joe appeared. “Hey, you’re supposed to each do a chore before you leave,” he said, scratching his head and quoting the general rule for hostels.

I gave him my best junior high school teacher look and voice: “WE have done enough. Good bye.” And, we got on our bikes and rode away.

Over breakfast, we discussed the situation. It was creepy. Each of us had felt it but hadn’t wanted to be the one who was squeamish. So, we spent a miserable, sleepless night in Forks.

Lesson learned: In the future, if any of us feel uncomfortable, for any reason, we will speak up. Pinky swear.

~ xoA ~