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The summer weekend I travelled from Vancouver to Prince Rupert the long way—via Alaska—I slept on a lawn chair through the Inside Passage, gambled on deck with American bikers, and spotted a rare white spirit bear on shore. I landed a prime lawn chair position: a window seat perched between the fresh air of the open seas and the solarium roof’s rain shelter. An anxious American soldier with a Stars and Stripes tattoo set out a camo-clad teddy bear in front of his tent. Whether aboard for work or pleasure, the long journey and the soft swells soon lulled us all. Morning brought the sight of fuzzy slippers and bare feet landing on deck and the welcome news that the ferry cafeteria’s coffee included free refills. The night before we reached Ketchikan, a group of us splurged on the cafeteria’s all-you-can-eat buffet. As we cut up roast beef and devoured salmon, we were interrupted by an urgent ferry announcement. It was dusk and the bear was hard to see, so people shared around cameras with telephoto lenses and we watched it, this beige-blond bear, fishing at the foot of a waterfall spilling into the sea. And then the crew took all the kids to the ferry cafeteria for free ice cream, as if to fix in their minds safety with sweetness. It seems that a regular theme of conversation among parents is what hikes they are now able to make with their children. Northword Magazine is the only independent, regional magazine that covers northern BC, from border to sea. I dined with German med students, spied on orca whales, and later hitched a ride to Ketchikan with a couple of Colombians in a lime green VW bus.
He spoke in a very loud voice and avoided all eye contact, but he was sweet and eager to tell us all about the fighting he’d done in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Inside, the halls to the washrooms and hot showers were covered with giant murals of grizzlies and moose. As we dined on carrot salad and buttered beans, I started talking about my elderly mother, who needed a hip replacement. It had been decades since I travelled with a backpack, ate with strangers and slept on train station floors. I couldn’t afford to ferry my car across to Victoria, then drive north to Port Hardy and put my car on another BC ferry to Prince Rupert. While cars and RVs rolled into the belly of the boat, and more affluent passengers moved suitcases into sleeping cabins, dozens of us foot passengers rushed to claim the best outdoor deck chairs. Those with the biggest backpacks claimed the back deck, where they started putting up tents. A stranger named Roger Fish from Jonesville, Tennessee sidled by to admit in a strange, sweet accent that, “I were watching yew sleep.” Later, he and his gang of friendly, rowdy Harley riders invited folks down to the lower deck to join in some games. Outside, we lay back on deck and watched green volcanic mountains slip by, some shaped like bread loaves. There at the table, a German orthopedic resident named Tariq grabbed a napkin and started sketching anatomical illustrations of what to expect. Diners abandoned their plates to dash onto the deck to see the white bear: a sight so rare, the passengers so awed, that the ferry actually stopped and turned twice in the narrow channel to go back for a second and, then, a third look.
It was nearby, in these same waters, that BC Ferries’ Queen of the North ran aground and sank in 2007.
The friendly crew told us what to expect in an emergency, including sliding down chutes into lifeboats. Three of us and our six horses were traversing a former mining road into Kakwa Provincial Park for a two-week horse pack trip.

We promise to put a vibrant, human face on northern life with great articles and stunning images, wrapped up in a funky, fresh, graphic look. So, having left my car in the North, I rolled up my sleeping bag, packed up some books, rice crackers and peanut butter, and headed out with my backpack, my sea legs, and a $300 ticket to ride. We’d spend the next two nights sleeping in the ocean air, reclining on plastic lawn loungers. Strangers were soon laughing and chatting as they shared duct tape and knot-tying skills, and worked to keep their flapping tents from flying away in the ocean breeze. I almost won at dice, but a teacher from Colorado took home the pot, retreating to the starlit bar with her windfall. They assured us they were ready to knock on each cabin door and search under beds and lockers and inside camper vans to get us all out. There were soldiers on board, as well as teachers recruited to Dutch Harbour in the distant Alaskan Aleutian Islands, and a social worker en route to her new job in Whitehorse. A fellow named Richard, who’d just quite his IT job in Puerto Rico, was busy asking people what brought them joy and filming them with his iPad for his new project on joy of which he believed there was not enough. When we crossed a rough passage of open water, someone passed out ginger candy and Gravol, and we all napped in a row on our lawn chairs, wrapped in a cool, thick fog.
The crew even charmed small children into trying on life jackets and snapping them securely. Later, after a mauve sunset, people pulled on flannel PJs and wool caps and surrendered to the dark.

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