I have made it a bit of a tradition to go down to Lund harbour on Labour Day weekend and watch the exodus: a steady stream of boats being pulled out at the boat ramp and kayaks coming out of the water and onto the tops of cars.
The marina that has been stacked three boats deep all summer suddenly has empty slips, and there is finally room again for locals to sit at tables in the bakery and nurse a cup of coffee like we do the rest of the year.
It’s official: tourist season is over.
Being so close to the roadless places, Lund is the first place people stop into on their way back to civilization.
Labour Day weekend is always one of the busiest traffic times of the year down here, but it’s different than the start of the season.
In June, people are coming from whatever place they started from that is much noisier, busier and faster than here. It shows.
The June rush has an air of panic about it, full of folks who have been driving all day, worrying about whether they are going to be able to make impossible ferry schedules and keep their kids from killing each other while they are packed in the hot car with all their gear.
There’s always a boat to catch, or a parking spot to find (which would not be a problem if people would park in the parking lot and not try to cram themselves into whatever spot on the side of the road they think they can fit into, but that is another story for another time).
Whether they know it or not, when people arrive here in June they bring with them a lot of what they are trying to get away from.
By now, you can just tell from watching them that things are different. People who have been kayaking in the Discovery Islands or Desolation Sound have been moving at the pace of waves and tides and sea lions for a lot of days now, and you can see it in how they move; the way they look around instead of just rushing straight for their destination like they do when they get here.
There’s a feeling of space, and time, that even the most dedicated city person cannot help but pick up on when they spend time in the wilderness. Even folks who have been in cottages or boats or RVs with all the comforts of a house in the suburbs have had a little of Lund rub off on them.
They move slower, smile more and take the time to chat with strangers.
It’s not that there are not still boats to catch and gear to load and kids to wrangle, but somehow people seem less worried about it all on their way out of here than they were on their way in.
Which always makes me wonder, why the heck are they going back?
