Surreal as it seems, it is that time again: the time when I fly in a plane to a parking lot in Prince George, meet people from Canada, get into big white leased trucks with them and all of our duffle bags full of tents and shovels and baby wipes, and drive into logging country. There we will all put seedlings into canvas bags we wear around our waists, and walk around in clear cuts planting the trees into the ground.

I will be happy. I will not be happy. I will get older and richer. I will get calluses. Later the calluses will fall off. I will drink a lot of beer. Later I will spend all the money. The seasons will refuse to stop coming.

For now I am frantically engaged in leaving Squamish. Here is a story I wrote about that as penance for breaking Vance’s telemark bindings, since he wouldn’t accept any money for them. He suggested a long poem if I really wanted to give him something, and this is what he got instead.

Leaving Squamish

a long poem short story

(by Hugh Stimson for Vance Cuthbert in lieu of his binding)

In theory I like to bike into town early. I scammed some 30 day tester contacts from the optometrist, and now I can see the east sun on Howe sound real clear coasting down hospital hill. Turning onto the highway I pass the highschool couple who did so much for the local punk scene by mohawking their hair. They’re already on their way out of town by foot. The SUV lane is almost empty: you can ride the double yellow across the bridge. At the Husky (where I secretly wish I worked) the old lady, and is it her son? lean their backs on the white painted wall, close their eyes and look up to the sun. Cleveland is quiet. Through the Dairy Queen window, I get stared at by the teenagers sitting in uniform in the booths, chins propped on hands.

By now I’ve passed a half dozen Indo-Canadians, even this early. Brilliantly turbaned old men, and their wives three paces behind. In conversation. But they never look at me so I feel bad about looking at them. At the cafe, I have a coffee on the patio. The patio is a street bench, the cafe a bakery, but the effect is at least as good. I swear, if not for bakeries, I wouldn’t drink coffee. The magnolias smell real. There goes that guy on his bike, with his daily armload of scrap 2x4s.

There’s an elderly couple in wheelchairs coming up the little hill. His wheelchair is motorized, and she’s got a grip on it from behind, like Michael J Fox on his skateboard in the start of Back to the Future. “Like hell, we need a tow-rope” he points out. “Tora aca! Tora aca!” she’s singing.

On my bike I wheel and pivot like a flock of sparrows. It’s Jen’s old Nishiki, she exhumed it from her parent’s shed in Vancouver when I got her mountain bike stolen and still needed a bike to go to work. I duct taped it together and now I stand on the pedals and bank sharply everywhere I go, dominating Squampton, Squish, Squamish, this weird little logging/native/indian/climber town with my transient hand-me-down highschool rubber.

I also broke Vance’s bindings on his telemark skis, the ones he used for his big traverse, causing Matt to remark that I can’t be trusted with gear. Which is true. I can’t be trusted with gear. I owe Vance a long poem in repayment, but I’m not sure when that’s going to get done now. Soon is the goodbye party for the yacht crew and it’s supposed to be ready by then.

The old wheelchair couple are trying to go in the automatic out door at the grocery store, and there’s a tangle of people and wheelchairs. “Merci beacoup!” she cries to the kids trying to clear them through. “Thanks for your help” he translates, but he’s not happy about it. He forgot to shave this morning.

A native guy with his headphones slung under his chin walks by and watches. He’s wearing a hockey jersey, they wear jerseys of some kind and they don’t mind looking at you, they’ll look at anyone anytime. The only time I’ve been in totem hall it was filled with white people for the valentines dance.

The only thing I know about the Indo-Canadians in this town is that it’s as much their town as anybody else’s. I see them loading into mini-vans in the evening, billowing and ghost-like in the headlights. I don’t know where they’re going, each other’s houses for dinner. There used to be an Indian restaurant in town, but it shut down. I’ve learned even less about the native people. I’m not even clear where the reserve is. Don John is a funny guy, I know that. Talking about Squamish’s cultures is tricky. Indians, Indo-Canadians, natives. Way to go Columbus.

I’m thinking about pedaling up Government to Brackendale before work, to watch the seagulls and eagles. A Toyota camper van is headed that way, a 5-10 sticker on the back. This is a mecca for bumper stickers. ‘Fuck you, I’m from Squamish’ – I have that one now. ‘Forestry and Tourism, Working Together’, I’m going to get that before I go. ‘Cut it, burnt it pave it, Squamish BC’. They probably won’t give me that one. Was that a nod from the Indo-Canadian guy to the kids in the van? Was that a nod?

In theory I like going early into town. In reality, I mostly use the time to sleep in, read the news on the internet then leave without quite enough time to get to work. But something has changed, and now I go, and I know what it is. Then end is coming, I’m leaving, my expiry date is approaching. And now, of course, I can see why I want to stay. All of a sudden I’m pissed at myself because I haven’t enjoyed all this squamishness enough while I was settled in and a real part of it. Amazing the detail you can see when it’s on its way out, or you are. It’s the same reason why the sun means more here, where the ocean tries to climb up the mountains all year, than in Cali. Down there it was literally sunny all summer, and I got utterly sick of it. Here, the occasional sun merits putting down tasks, leaving buildings.

Everything is contrast. I don’t know about good without evil, but it?s hard to find worthwhile staying without leaving. I have been here for 5 months. The same amount of time Vance took to traverse his mountains. On his skis. With his bindings. Maybe he had taken those bindings for granted, and now will really appreciate them again in memory. Or maybe he will just be irritated. I need to write that poem and I’m coming up empty.

I have one more month in Squamish, Vance has his memories, and now, I hear, the yacht crew have at least a few more days to absorb what they are leaving. Walking here in the valley of the shadow of departure, all is the best it ever will be.

Ω