vargas island

Dates traveled: June 2015 and May 8, 2017

There was a time in my life where I didn’t take many photos when I was traveling. Either I was traveling with Justin (or someone else more apt at photo-taking), or it was pre-fancy phone days. Or I just don’t know where those old photos have gone.

The first time I visited Vargas island and spent the night was one of those times, so I only have my imperfect memory to rely on and the photos of Justin’s that he didn’t lose.

During that first trip, my main source of income was as a dishwasher, so things like paying for a water taxi from Tofino wasn’t something I took lightly. But I let Justin convince me that it’d be fun, and you know what, it was. I started by googling Vargas island before we left, and the first thing that came up was about wolf attacks, but Justin said we shouldn’t look at stuff like that.

To be clear, I’m not afraid of wolves. I’m only really afraid of cougars. I feel like I could take a wolf 8 times out of 10. Luckily I didn’t have to, though both times I went I saw wolf tracks, and the first time some of those tracks were on the wet sand next to our beach tent.

When you first arrive on the water taxi, you get off on this half-sunken dock that has roof shingles to help keep you steady, which is about as accurate an indication of what hiking on the island’s like as any. There are numerous detours based on what trees have fallen down and where the mud’s too deep.

The two buoys hanging from a low-lying tree branch on the small beach that the taxi drops you off at is still one of my all-time favourite scenes, showing you where the rough trail starts.

It’s about a 90 minute hike to the other side of the island, which is essentially a giant beach, and probably the nicest giant beach I have ever seen (hat-tip to Chesterman beach in nearby Tofino for second place). When Justin and I first did the hike, we didn’t know what the expect, and it ended up taking less time because we were harassed by an extended family of bees and practically ran most the way, and Justin chose that moment to tell me he was deathly allergic to bees and didn’t bring his epi pen.

In the end being chased by bees just made us rejoice all the more when we got to the beach, overwhelmed by how beautiful the world could be when you’re on its edge.

When we got there, we went on a long beach-walk and found several odd debris. We read a notice that items were washing up from a tsunami in Japan a couple years ago. Aside from unrecognizable objects, there was a completely intact (but beat-up) grocery basket with Asian letters on it, presumably washed up from the tsunami. We didn’t find any human remains, and in the unlikely event that we found any, a sign told us to be respectful and phone it in.

One of the cooler things we found in one of the corners of beach was what looked like an outdoor kitchen. There were areas to prepare food, a fire pit, and plenty of seating, looking out towards the quick tide. Behind it was the bathroom (well, a hole in the ground), and a couple of cache spots to store food.

When I went back in 2017, the construction was still there, but it was much more barren than before, with many of the items having been taken or lost in the two-year span of my visits.

Oh, going back. When I first went with Justin, I was flabbergasted but I was also very emotional, and not the happy kind, so it’s not like going back I was rushed into a transcendental memory of unicorns and lollipops and the mistaken illusion that everything in my life was absolutely serene.

When I went back in spring 2017 with a different friend, and for a much shorter period of time, I repeated thoughts I had from two years back, and I reflected on where my life was from where it had been. As much as I knew objectively that I was in a more secure state – that I was on the up and up – the emotional residue still lingered. It only took the visceral being-in-place to jolt it awake from its slumber below my bones.

I was confused with the disconnect between where I felt I was and where I was actually. I was de-realized, sinking into low-tide’s wet sand.

There’s something about driftwood that’s practical – it’s a beach chair you don’t have to bring with you – and represents the uber-poetic, the long journey from destruction, washed up who-knows-how-long later onto a beach with stories soaked into its stump. It’s a raft to the unknown, an artifact that used to be alive, humbly existing as a piece of furniture for me to enjoy the scene.

I wrote a poem when I was first there, since published in The Windsor Review. You know it’s a poem because there aren’t any uppercase letters. It’s how I separate myself into a quiet description of where I’m not sure I am.

It gets stuck in my head sometimes, or at least it used to. I think I may be over it, mostly, for the time being.

tide pushes dead animals close to driftwood pile. red-beaked mystery birds peck red urchins. stars hang three-quarters the way to apex like freckle decorations. umbilical bullwhips mark graves by barnacle craters that erupt underwater. in some ways we’re brave, in wolf country with paper shelter but it’s not supposed to rain. the sound will put me to sleep an hour or two after adjusting to waves’ wild rumble, swelling phytoplankton bubbles. i swear we’ll escape this lunar cycle but i dunno how to determine next. nevertheless we’re here tonight i’m here tonight to jolt some thrill into insomnia that cuts up my life like crows pick crab flesh knocked in crags. this is the only melody that i have. i hope this makes me stronger somehow & that meaning presents itself obviously from a former disguise & that i die satisfied.