Voyage to Haida Gwaii – DAY THREE (Prince George to Prince Rupert)

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

So it turns out that while Prince George isn’t all that far from Jasper, Prince Rupert is an awful long way from Prince George. 724 kilometers – as long a day as the coastal Lake Superior road from Sault Ste. Marie to Thunder Bay, and just as winding. The first time I drove along the north shore of Superior, I arrived in T-Bay four hours later than I’d calculated, and wept at the feet of the Terry Fox monument (which is admittedly moving even under less trying circumstances). My driving nerve is stronger now, but the drive to Rupert (who turns out to be some sort of Bavarian monarch’s son) was hard on me.

I left late, to start. I was so enthralled by the free wireless internet at the Economy Inn that I used part of the morning internetting. Partly to type yesterday’s blog entry, and so the paradox continues. So I didn’t get going on the road until nearly 11:00, after I’d found the right Tim Hortons for me (there were five of them in town) and passed out of Prince George’s surprising sprawl.

The day is a bit squished in my memory, but here are some notes in possibly not-so-chronological order:

The pine beetle infestation was obvious along the whole journey – unless there are new varieties of trees being developed that are purple or skeletal. In every infested area, about half of the individuals of a certain species of tree were infected. Why not the others? All the rest stops had signs about the stages of infestation – and how “harvesting” the wood while it still had “value” was the only answer. For those of you who don’t know the details of these wee beetles, they die back only when the winters are below a certain temperature for a certain length of time. So the pine beetle infestation is a massive example of the chaotic effects of global warming.

On a whim, I turned off the highway to visit old historic Hazelton – and once I was there, I realised its significance. Doubly. ONE – Emily Carr painted totem poles on these hills, I swear it. TWO – Cora Grey, Grant Hadwin’s friend (before he cut down the Golden Spruce) was from here. This is a Gitxsan community, and amidst the colonial buildings lies a reconstructed native village that I would have visited if I’d had more time. Between Hazelton (on the highway) and Old Hazelton sprawls a canyon of such depth that I wonder why the two Hazeltons ever considered themselves connected. The bridge is one lane, and the signs basically say “Just, um, kinda wait till it’s clear.”



Smithers was a nice town – with the look of Canmore I’d say. All the way there, I kept reading the “Smithers, ___ km” signs in a Mr. Burns voice. It got me through. Smithers was a nice, clean town – tourist shops, bakeries (I calmed my driver’s nerves with a Dutchish almond cookie in one of these), a bit of that ornate chaletish “Swiss” look to the main street. I felt comfortable there – and if I were really pressed to say why, I might admit that I felt comfortable because it was a White town. Unlike Prince George, where most of the very few people wandering the streets were native. Am I really most comfortable in my own culture? It was also a Middle Class town – and a town of shopping. Everybody’s a little bit racist, on a long driving day.

I ate dinner at Denny’s in Terrace. Terrace is the Glasgow to Smither’s Edinburgh. (I mean, like in the 19th century.) More industrial, rougher, more sprawling. Less Comfortable. Denny’s is an odd, odd place. It’d been a long time since I’d been there, and it may be a while before I am back. But I like the excuse that driving gives me, to eat poorly. I had had lunch at A&W, another of those portabello-based veggie burgers, and now that I’m being tossed on Hecate Straight (I’ll get to that tomorrow) I’m regretting all the rich food I’ve been eating.

By the time I left Terrace it was 7:40 pm, and I still had a 90 minute drive to Prince Rupert. There was still plenty of light left in terms of the sun being up, but the heavy clouds made the drive gloomy, spooky and wonderful. The high rounded tops of mountains with permanent patches of snow looked like orcas. The woods were a deep, deep green out of which I expected Sasquatch to bound. The highway aimed for a while toward one of the sheerest cliffs I've ever seen, a cliff that rose out from a riverbank and loomed over the steel trestle bridge I had to cross. I pulled into Prince Rupert and things were dim and the hilliness never stopped and I checked into the Black Rooster Hostel, whose desk has only a sign for personel: "for check in, please pick up the phone [arrow] - and press the button marked 'manager'". It took a few minutes, but she arrived.