In the Valleys of the Noble Bey - John Zada Page 0,70
smell of oily grime on metal, sea breeze, and engine exhaust can, strangely, have an almost soothing effect.
The Queen of Chilliwack feels, in that sense, familiar as it plows leisurely through the forest-lined arteries of ocean. On the front deck, a few dozen tourists lean over the railings, gazing toward the rugged slopes of Swindle and Dowager Islands. I find myself thinking about Leonard Ellis, the former bear hunter turned bear-viewing guide from Bella Coola. Though he offers no obvious connection with the Sasquatch, I’m eager to visit this controversial mountain man again. The more I hear of him, the more I envision an antihero, a kind of Clint Eastwood cowboy.
While waiting to catch the Chilliwack in Bella Bella, I brought up Ellis with Ian McAllister at Pacific Wild. Ian, who has butted heads with Ellis many times over the latter’s bear and wolf hunts, described him as a hard—but also charismatic—man. That second quality chimed more with my memory of him.
“He’s a skilled predator who’s bagged a lot of animals,” Ian said. He took a moment to mull his next words, before deciding to say nothing else.
The Queen of Chilliwack docks in Klemtu’s bay shortly after noon to a litany of metallic screeches and clanging noises. The hamlet of 450 people, a cluster of homes set in a few rows, hugs the curving bay beneath a pair of scruffy conical hills. I go ashore for the afternoon and find many of Klemtu’s residents, whole families, crowded outside the boat. For a moment, I think they’re a welcoming committee for someone important getting off the boat. The Kitasoo/Xai’xais have a reputation for being the friendliest First Nation community on the coast. But then residents impatiently board the ship. I learn that the townsfolk gather weekly to have lunch in the ferry’s cafeteria.
This is my second visit to Klemtu. I had come here by floatplane as part of my magazine assignment the year before. At the time, Klemtu, like other nearby communities, was experiencing a surge in reported Sasquatch activity. Kitasoo/Xai’xais territory has a long history of reports, with documented cases going back to the 1930s—long before the words Bigfoot and Sasquatch became commonplace. Residents here claim some of the creatures live on the shores of Kitasoo Lake, nestled in a bowl in the mountains just above the community, which serves as the town’s water reservoir. Sasquatch sightings over the decades have always come in periodic waves. During my previous visit, the creatures were showing themselves again after years of inactivity.
In the few hours I have in Klemtu I visit the Spirit Bear Lodge—a world-class ecotourist bear-viewing resort, owned and run by the Kitasoo, that has completely revitalized the community. While there, I run into Charlie Mason—a jovial storyteller and hereditary chief. I ask him about Bigfoot activity in the village. He tells me the earlier spike in incidents has already dropped off.
“How do you account for that?” I ask him.
Mason shrugs his shoulders. “That’s just how it is with them Sasquatch,” he says, in his characteristically baritone voice. “You won’t see ‘em for years, and then suddenly they’re back like they never left. Then one day, you realize they’re gone again—poof—like they were never there to begin with.”
There one moment, gone the next.
Is this the cunning of some unknown being? Or the shenanigans of the most complex piece of machinery in the known universe—the human mind?
I’ve lost track of time. The long blast of the Queen of Chilliwack‘s horn, signaling its imminent departure, yanks me away from Klemtu’s relative normalcy—a state that will prove to be short-lived.
The Chilliwack pushes on into the advancing dusk. I am standing on deck, alone, as we backtrack through Heiltsuk territory, crawling through the channels and passes dividing jigsaw slabs of land. As we go from Return Channel to Fisher Channel, the mountains, with their heads above the clouds, transform into shadowy presences. At midnight a distant light appears through the sea of blackness at the head of Cousins Inlet. The Chilliwack’s intercom announces our impending arrival in Ocean Falls. I gather my things and queue up with an older couple from Oregon at the ship’s exit. As the ferry pulls up to the illuminated pier another message comes over the intercom warning passengers disembarking with their cars not to drive while talking on their cell phones, or they may incur a hefty fine.
Two ferry employees walk by as the message is broadcast. One of them laughs at the announcement.