Inside by Susan Marie Conrad

Author:Susan Marie Conrad [Conrad, Susan Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / BIO023000 - Adventurers & Explorers, SPORTS & RECREATION / SPO051000 - Water Sports
ISBN: 978-1-935347-65-1
Publisher: Epicenter Press
Published: 2016-05-15T07:00:00+00:00

I’D TUCKED A SMALL BOTTLE OF SHAMPOO into my toiletry kit for the rare, hot shower. Becky and I had hoped that our self-imposed layover day on Fury Island, with a side trip to Buck’s Trophy Lodge, would be such an occasion. The next morning, each armed with trial-sized containers of thick golden shampoo and small camp towels, Becky and I hugged the shoreline of Penrose Island where we aimed to duck into Finn Bay, a large indentation at its north end, and find civilization. We weren’t stopping at just taking showers either. We’d also packed a dry bag full of grimy clothes, our Canadian currency, and our garbage. I’d read in my guidebook that the Finn Bay Resort and Buck’s Lodge were the last of the Rivers Inlet fishing resorts, boasting many amenities. In our minds danced visions of silky clean hair, freshly laundered fleece, an empty garbage bag, and bellies full of fish and chips—and beer.

But instead we sat at Buck’s Trophy Lodge, on a wooden bench, beneath a placard on the boardwalk that read “BULLSHIT BOULEVARD,” with no humans in sight. Turns out we were a few weeks ahead of the season and the lodge was still shut tight. Only two forlorn calico cats, left to their mousing, kept us company. Still sporting grungy hair, dirty fingernails, and over-ripe armpits, we ate our humdrum lunch together, laughing on Bullshit Boulevard. Our consolation was trusting that we could properly freshen up at Namu, a former cannery town about a two-day paddle away.

When we were done eating, we wandered around the floating camp, peeking through locked glass windows into homey guest cabins, a tackle shop, and a laundry room. A dozen fishing boats with Honda outboard motors sat dry-docked, side by side. In the main lodge, tawdry plastic palm trees decorated with strands of chili pepper lights, a pool table, and a cast iron wood stove occupied a large, open room. A hot tub and sauna, to provide relief to the sore arms of anglers who had battled giant salmon for hours—and paid good money to do so—sat forsaken in the corner. In the back stood an oversized varnished bar, where we imagined a few oversized paunches had bellied up. An adjacent room housed a commercial-sized kitchen, brimming with propane tanks, chest freezers, and Formica counter tops. We fantasized about the aroma of cheeseburgers and fish and chips that would permeate the air when Buck’s came to life, when scores of sport fishermen would spend their vacations here, living the beauty and wildness of coastal British Columbia for a short week, maybe two, if they were lucky, sharing their fish tales on Bullshit Boulevard. We, of course, would be long gone by that time.

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