A logging road, maintained to keep the lumber coming down to the mills. Well maintained. Clear directions. Do not improvise or vary from instructions. Lumber Truckers are warned to check in at certain mileposts. Tourists are an irritant.
The dust from the road covers every leaf, every tree, every exposed inch of everything. It looks barren - but not (because there are millions of green leaves just below the gray cover of dust).
We came here for solitude. And we found it. The weekend campers are gone. The summer vacationers gave up a 100km ago. This is PAST the end of the road. And we LOVE IT.
This was what was so intriguing about Vancouver Island, specifically, North Vancouver Island.
As I ponder about this place and its people, I am reminded of the road leading to the end of the road outside New Orleans. Out to the lands inhabited by oil workers. Where there are more helipads than you will see in a lifetime elsewhere. Where you can buy daiquiris in a drive through joint.
This was made for hard men with hard jobs. In New Orleans they live in the Ocean and pump oil from under floating Derrick wells. Here they wind way up into the true wilderness to cut tall and straight lumber on a remote island founded to house the headquarters of the Hudson Bay Company (Pacific side) when the US and Canada established a border on the 40th parallel.
Louisiana was filled with Cajuns and Vancouver with starving Scots.
Louisiana was filled with Cajuns and Vancouver with starving Scots.
We moved our camp (again) as the prime spot opened up (actually - they all did. We are ALONE). We have a beautiful (and free) campsite with access to a private beach on an undeveloped lake in the middle of no where. Past the end of the road…..
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