As long as I’m revisiting writings from years past, I might as well dredge up this one. I wrote this back in 1996 but never finished it.
The sky had a greyness about it that weighed down on us. Although it was July, a chill invaded the car that made me pull my coat tighter around me. On either side of me, in a blur of green and grey — the colours of raw earth, the forest — sped by to the sound of the swishing of the windshield wipers, and the hiss of tires on wet pavement.
We were going for a hike somewhere near Squamish, as John had suggested. But oddly, none of us had dressed or packed for hiking, as if we knew secretly that none of us really had the will to commit ourselves to a long, rainy trail. Deep down, the three of us—John, Simon, and I—knew that we would never see the trail today. Nevertheless, we folded ourselves into Simon’s little Toyota and set out on the highway.
The act of committing oneself to the highway has always struck me as a metaphor. The highway is a place between places, without name, and without real existence. Where are you when you’re on the highway? Nowhere. Just after one town, but not yet to the other town. Each time I get onto a highway, I feel that, as I leave behind the city, I also leave behind my life. Sometimes when I feel a little tense, it helps me just to get in a car and drive, and where I end up is exactly where I should be.
So into that place of transition, we threw ourselves, peeling off the lives of the city, and searching for a place of purity.
Then, without warning, a shark flew in through the open window and attacked me. Fortunately, I had my spear gun with me, and Henri, who had previously been silent, pulled it from my bloodied hands, and fired the death shot through the shark’s head. For nearly two minutes, the dying shark thrashed in the confines of Simon’s car. My heart began to resume a normal speed only when the last twitches had left the beast. Once again, I owed my life to Henri’s cool head.
Although the others suggested that we turn back at this point, I felt it was important to press on. And so, after a short rest break, Simon pulled us back onto the highway. But this time with more caution. For where there was blood, there would come other sharks. Or worse still—the dreaded Yeti.
Yetis, although somewhat rare in this part of the world, can be counted on for an appearance where there is fresh sharkmeat. Although we had left the shark carcass behind us at the side of the road, the scent of blood was now on the car, acting as a kind of beacon to every meat-eating predator on the Sea-to-Sky Highway—including the Yeti. Forging ahead, we maintained a keen lookout.
Every minute stretched into what seemed to be at least one and a quarter minutes, and the relentless tension wore us down quickly. We realized that, although we were making good time, we couldn’t keep moving for much longer. We had to rest.
When we arrived in the town of Squamish, our eyes were red from fatigue, and we needed to find a safe harbour in which to rest and recuperate. As Simon pulled the car into the town, we searched for a place of refuge. We made our way along the main street, where we found a varied and strange population in the streets: some walking, some standing or sitting, others driving, as we were. Keeping in mind our previous experiences in small towns, we decided it was best to avoid making direct contact with the inhabitants, lest we provoke a response.
The pub we finally settled on was inhabited by an unusual variety of dolphins—not outwardly friendly, but non-aggressive for the moment. Henri had fortunately remembered to carry a small bucket of herring to keep the locals happy if they became too curious. In a tense moment, a tasty snack can distract a dolphin just long enough to slip away to the safety of the car. And as a bribe for leaving us alone, a well-timed handful of fish can ensure privacy too.
Simon poured us the first glass of a strange brown liquid that the locals apparently drank a lot of, and ignoring the small beach crabs nipping at our toes, we settled down to plan our strategy.
The rain, we decided, was something we hadn’t fully accounted for, and although it didn’t present a barrier to our journey, it was in fact really nasty and cold. Throughout our discussions, Henri cast worried glances over his shoulder at the wet grey canopy enveloping the cliff face known as the Chief. I knew Henri. He didn’t get worried about ordinary things. But this time he was genuinely spooked. And that spooked me.
Brushing a roving squid from my ear, I refilled our glasses.