Skagit River


One of the great things about calling Vancouver home is that you’re always carrying a forest around in your back pocket. A few hours drive out of town and Justin, Mike and I hit up an adult playground along the sparsely occupied Skagit River. Keep in mind this is August long weekend, arguably the busiest camping weekend in BC.

Never mind the dust, the mosquitoes or the bee sting; never mind the brawl we nearly got into with our hick neighbours—grandpa flying in with fists raised, mom swearing her head off, “Don’t use that fucking language in front of my kids!”—cooler heads (ours) eventually prevail.

Despite a few imperfections, this is still my kind of paradise: four o’clock lunches, bridge jumping and greasy camp food. We carry chairs into the middle of the river and smoke while I glance at the suspiciously single-looking lady down the river (she’s not, nor is her friend, we investigated). The guys fish while I read, but we are united in our love of Kings of Leon, Settlers, and sleeping in.

All this is marked by the absense of time. We live by feeling, by fancy—our stomachs’ direction and the heat on our skin.

In the evening the light dissipates on the water, perfect for film. All is quiet. In the long pauses between sips of beer and drags on our cigars, silence is more than acceptable.


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