"After you land and collect your bags, grab a taxi over to the float plane terminal and I'll be there to meet you." Such was my first introduction to Canada – the epitome of the Yorkie bar culture.As an add-on to our 2006 summer vacation through parts of western USA, my wife and I spent a week in the Vancouver area. We had friends there who offered to put us up for a few days and, a day before our arrival, I called Chip from San Francisco to arrange our pick-up.
My expectations of a vehicular transfer were grossly exceeded by the sight a gleaming blue and white Cessna A185F four-seater float plane. We shoved our cases in the back, I sat in the 'first officer's seat' and my wife sat amongst the luggage. The Cessna bobbed about as we accelerated down our aquatic runway and before long we were rising into the blue sky.
The urban sprawl of downtown Vancouver gave way to rugged mountains, small inlets and sprawling green forests as we flew north-west along the coast of British Columbia. The vast expanse of Vancouver Island chaperoned our left flank. We passed the occasional yacht and, on one occasion, a seal hitching a ride on a flotilla of logs being towed by a tug boat.
I sat there tense, hoping that the occasional bump would not bring us down into the very cold looking Strait of George below. And that our pilot wouldn't have a heart attack during the next hour or so.
We soon reached Powell River, a coastal city of 13,000, which just clears the northerly tip of Texada Island. We flew over Powell River paper mill, once the largest in the world, and then turned north-east towards Powell Lake.
Our first stop in Canada would be a floating cabin on Lake Powell. And our transfer would literally drop us at the front door.
Powell Lake, named after Israel Wood Powell (former Superintendant of Indian Affairs for BC), is some 25 miles long. Our house on a raft was moored some 8 miles from civilisation. Several floating homes dotted the shore of this lake and our nearest neighbour was on the opposite side. We were completely cut-off.
The powder blue cabin resembled more a mid-western barn than a residence. An arc of tethered logs, about 30 metres out, formed a breaker for when the lake began to swell (which it did like clockwork late afternoon.) The cabin was connected to the shore by two linked pontoons, about 15 metres in length. The temptation to explore the forested banks was tempered by my knowledge that bears inhabited these woods. My thoughts quickly turned to whether a grizzly could navigate the pontoons and pay us an unexpected visit.
Our electricity was provided by a diesel generator and our toilet was of the chemical variety, at home on any campsite. There was no mobile phone signal whatsoever. But don't get me wrong, this was far from slumming it. This cabin was home to a wood-burning stove, three-piece suite, two double bedrooms and a fully-equipped kitchen. It had everything you needed for a comfortable stay.
You could quickly forget you were floating on a lake in the middle of nowhere as your body subconsciously adjusts to the gentle bobbing. You only really noticed this sensation when you arrived back on terra firma. A period of stumbling about in a state not unlike drunkenness would follow, before your normal sense of balance returned.
It was only after we'd returned to dry land, after a few days of chilling out, reading and sunbathing, that my wife said, "What would have happened if one of us had fallen seriously ill and needed medical attention quickly?"
The thought hadn't struck me at all whilst we were – good question though!
