Port Alberni, Vancouver Island, BC, Canada
The thing about roller-coaster rides is that when you are sitting, white-knuckled, in your carriage and the ride is slowly climbing skyward toward the apex, you KNOW that there is a precipitous drop coming and you can prepare for the weightless thrill of dropping off the pretend cliff.
Traveling with the New Old Time Chautauqua is something like that, only you can’t predict the apex and the cliff is not pretend.
Our tour leaves Lasqueti Island mid-morning on July 21st, by mid-day on July 22nd we are in Port Alberni collectively thinking of cancelling the whole thing.
In between those two bookmarks we have several prolonged moments of supreme bliss.
This state of earthly bliss is mostly caused by the confluence of Beaver Creek and the Stamp River, an early-summer run of Sockeye salmon, four hours of community service pulling up invasive English Ivy (at one point in history Great Britain was almost everywhere, its disappearing empire leaving behind the language we all speak, and many many kinds of noxious weeds) and a bus ride to a semi-secret swimming hole nestled in a deep gorge below a solid twisting concrete fish ladder lined on both sides by a majestic forest of true fir, Douglas fir, western red cedar, northern hemlock, alder, maple, and arbutus trees.
The sentences keep getting longer and longer but you can see how dense the physiological landscape has become. Trust me, it gets no simpler from, here.
Charlie Bravo Foxtrot, the Desert-Storm grey, Army-issue, Blue Bird school bus that many of us are traveling in (one of two known war veterans on this tour) pulls into the parking lot at the trailhead to Nirvana Canyon. Late morning. It takes up many of the parking spaces. The air temperature is approaching 35 degrees (83 Fahrenheit) A wooded trail leads 800 meters downhill to Rainbow Gorge. From the cliff sides at the mouth of the gorge you can dive or jump into thirty feet of water. You can look down into the aqua clearness and see migrating salmon and steelhead trout swirling their way upstream to spawn. You can also slip quietly into the water among the boulders where the gorge again spreads itself into the wide Stamp River, and in a few strokes (I recommend dog-paddling) you can be communing with the fishes. (Foreshadowing here. For those who remember the Godfather Part One.)
After four hours of ivy pulling (along Kitsuksis Creek, invigorating but somewhat futile) and in the morning heat (two of us were also stung multiple times by a hidden wasp nest) you can see why the waters of the clean-flowing Stamp River represent a kind of nirvana.
Yes, it’s the roller coaster reaching the tipity-top of it’s tracks.
But who knew?
Already we were being stalked by the Zombie Death Virus.
You probably know it better by it’s official name: C47-QBT-89067-COV. The Sasquatch Strain.
Corona. The dreaded COVID.
That ever-popular retro-virus that shut down much of the world in 2020-21. It killed millions before their time, and found itself amazingly comfortable in airports, movie theaters, train stations and homeless bus shelters. It could manifest itself as anything between a slight head cold to full on respirator death in an over-crowed hospital where even the doctors and nurses were dying. It’s not much of a joke really and yes, it is still with us. And again yes, there is a real thing called “long-Covid” which you may NEVER get over.
So when was YOUR last covid test? Mine was yesterday morning, just before breakfast. (Negative, thank goodness)
We are a big group (40 plus individuals) traveling together. Our first positive Covid test was confirmed just after we returned from the blissful swimming hole and prepared to have lunch at Beaver Creek Community Center. July 22, 2025. About 12:37 PM.
See, that’s the thing, this little virus (just one spiked molecule) is completely insidious. It represents its own steep and deadly psychological cliff. Free fall from the apex of the roller-coaster. With no clear safe landing in sight.
“And it’s five, six, seven, eight open up the Pearly Gates. Well there ain’t no time to wonder why, whoopee we’re all gonna die.”
If you are old enough to remember which song that above lyric comes from then you are certainly old enough to be at risk for life-changing sickness by Covid.
Or as I like to call it: The Zombie Death Virus.
I’d like to say that as a group we handled this is in a mature and professional manner. That would most likely mean cancelling the rest of the tour and flying off for the rest of the season to our summer vacation homes on the isle of Majorca. (Sorry fans. We will be back next year. Full ticket refund with the exception of certain “handling fees” ($15 either way, purchasing and refunding, which surely you will understand. We want you all to know how much we love and appreciate you. “C ha-ching, cha ching….”)
But that would not be the Chautauqua Way.
The Chautauqua path includes a contentious general meeting under an open-air picnic area where everyone gets to express their unlikely-to-agree opinion. We shout and cry at each other and try to decide what to do. We come to the conclusion that the tour must go on. We mostly agree to test everyone daily (some people leave the tour because they don’t believe in testing). We are gifted one hundred additional test kits (the Canadien government believes in universal healthcare though it is unclear if they know they are gifting test kits to Americans, normal cost is $7 each) We all agree and to wear masks when we are indoors (excepting those who don’t agree to that). We also agree to call all of our presenters, be totally up front with them about the virus and see what THEY want us to do) (Quick note: Not one of our local organizers wanted us to cancel our tour stop)
As the local recording journalist (and somewhat heart-compromised, but generally fit, 71-year-old) I had the clear choice, no questions asked, to leave. But what war correspondent goes home just when the bullets are about to fly?
What award-winning writer tells the nitty-gritty story of Death By Chautauqua from the safety of his living room (even if it IS on the Isle of Majorca)?
Not THIS correspondent folks.
This correspondent couldn’t wait to stay on tour and see the final death throes of the New Old Time Chautauqua. How everyone would tear-up over the loss of Artis the Spoonman (he left the tour but did not die shortly after getting sick)? The disappearance of Ward Serrill the film maker (no more posturing to try to get into his documentary), the grit and determination of our fearless demi-leader (“Why do I always have to do all the schlepping?”) and the Goddess-like benevolence of Kristin Crowley our cook, bottle washer, and Supreme Den Mother.
Gather up all you Cub Scouts. We are all going to die together!
“Is there any cool-aide left?”
More soon. Stay tuned.
The roller coaster hasn’t quite reached the bottom.
Yet.