Quadra Island
In those Halcyon days of hippies and back-to-the-land ventures by totally unprepared and naive city dwellers, I found myself living on Quadra Island one of the Discovery Islands verging on Desolation Sound. Quadra was becoming one of the go-to destinations for those who felt the need to leave the already tiresome scene of Vancouver’s Fourth Avenue about the same time San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury was devolving from flower children into a snake pit of heroin addicts.
Like so much of my life, I felt my time on Quadra was a bit like that of an outsider, a dilettante, trying to fit into both worlds and not succeeding very well at either. In the mornings I put on a jacket and tie and took the ferry to Campbell River where I held a respectable job with the community newspaper. In the evenings and on weekends I put on my torn jeans and Mexican peasant shirt and smoked doobies hanging out in and around the Island’s pub.
Back then I liked both weed and beer and indulged in one or both depending on the company. One evening in the pub I was heading for the Men’s room and while passing the wide-open door of the Women’s, I noticed a true Hippie chick doing her best to bathe in the tiny hand sink.
Stark naked, she was standing with on one foot on the floor and the other lifted into the sink while washing herself with wet paper towels. I’m not even sure of my initial reaction. Was I a Satyr gazing at the beauty of a wood nymph bathing her long, lithe limbs in the cool water of a pond deep in the woods? From my brief glance through the doorway, I think I found her attractive. But I didn’t linger long enough (I am a gentleman after all) to notice what must have been hairy legs and armpits. And try as I might (like the true Renaissance man I wanted to be) I never was able to find this early feminist statement appealing.
Memories might be a bit blurred by a marijuana haze, but I believe that may have been the same night I nearly burned down the house along with a brood of chickens I was babysitting while my friends who were renting the place were away. It was more of a summer cabin really, poorly insulated and when the night turned cold I tried lighting the old oil range cum heater that was fed by gravity from a barrel on the outside of the house. Instructions were simple, open valve, allow a quantity of oil to pool, drop a burning Kleenex on top of the oil and allow it to ignite. But it didn’t work. Kleenex after Kleenex fizzled and went out. Why Kleenex? Anyone who’s ever tried knows Kleenex burns at too low a temperature to start a fire. Finally in desperation, I tried crumpled newspaper. Meanwhile all this while the oil supply valve was still open and it was getting deeper and deeper in the bottom of the stove. When it finally ignited it didn’t take long to turn into a roaring blaze. Toasty warm but soon it was heating up the metal stovepipe which made a 90 degree turn near the ceiling before exiting outside. I had shut off the oil supply valve, but the fire kept rolling and before long, the top of the pipe at the elbow began glowing red, and then flames licked out scorching the exposed ceiling joists. My rising anxiety was turning into mild panic. I threw water on the stovepipe which helped temporarily, but the ensuing gush of steam scared me enough that I clamped down on my embarrassment, and called the volunteer fire department.
The siren at the firehall just a ways down the road issued its ululating wail, summoning the volunteers to gather from all parts of the Island. It took a while to assemble enough crew and for them to climb into their gear and make their way to the cabin. By the time they arrived with sirens wailing and lights flashing and neighbours gathering, my water treatment had knocked down the fire and the stove had burned off the excess oil.
With the firefighters milling around with nothing to do, then came the awkward part. It turns out the fire chief owned the cabin that my friends were renting, and he was indignantly grilling me about who the Hell was I and what the Hell was I doing there. Turns out the tenants never informed the landlord they were going to be away and that I was would housesitting and tending their chickens.
I thought humour might help. I suggested my plan was to invite the fire department over for roast chicken. When that fell flat I prompted the Chief and his crew: “Charles Lamb?... Roast pork?”
Nada. Cleary not up on their literary allusions. Must all be locals.
“It’s a famous story. A humourous essay called A Dissertation Upon Roast Pig. It’s about a Chinese farmer who discovered roast pig after his barn burned to the ground,” I explained as I swept my hand towards the chicken coop.
Still nothing.
I shrugged, thinking to myself it probably wouldn’t have worked with chickens anyway – the feathers might have been a bit messy.