A detour to Squamish

By Lakshmi Sharath

I am blinded by the hazy blue sea. Ever since I landed in British Columbia, it is the sea that has accompanied me. Sometimes it is a river, at other times it is a lake. And now I am lost in the picturesque views of a sound surrounding me, a network of fjords, located just an hour away from Vancouver.

The Howe Sound Fjord, a triangular body of water, is punctuated with several islands with mountains towering over the town of Squamish at its head, whose history it shares. And I am headed to that ancient town, home of the indigenous people.

Driving on the scenic Sea to Sky Highway, I realise detours make for great destinations. My guide seems to read my mind as he veers off the highway and takes us to Porteau Cove, a provincial park that offers stunning views of the Howe’s Sound Fjord. There is not a soul around. The azure waters are popular with scuba divers as a few sunken ships and artificial reefs offer dramatic underwater views. But I am content to just gaze at the surface for now. The sky is grey and a thin layer of mist floats over the mountains while I soak in the silence.

I carry with on after a short halt at Shannon Falls and reach Squamish to see views of the Howe Sound Fjord from an altitude of 885 metres. It is still hazy out there but the sun is warm and the maple leaves are in the process of changing colour – some in bright red while the others are painted in shades of pink and purple. The gondola is just an eight-minute ride and I fly in slow motion, taking in the view. The picture postcard comes alive. The coastal forest, the fjord, the mountains, the river, all fade in and out of sight. It is like watching a montage of nature clothed in her finest fabric. The sun’s rays just touch the summit of the mountains while the rest of the landscape is wrapped in a haze. At the peak, it is an adventurer’s paradise. I walk on a suspension bridge that delicately swings beneath my feet and as I look down, I am a bit dizzy but high on life. The adventurous are all set to go hiking, but I take a small walk, following a guide who takes us on a little trail.

Squamish loosely means Mother of the Wind. A gentle breeze blows across my face but Squamish is also referred to the Arctic Outflow, a powerful draught of air that causes wind chills. A path emerges from nowhere and I walk aimlessly. The coastal forest converges around me forming a canopy of tall trees of western hemlock, the cedar, maple, douglas fir, red alder. Ferns and lichen, moss and shrubs gather around my feet. In this green fabric, pink and yellow flowers blossom in the woods. It is a pantheist’s delight.

Referred to as “the people of the sacred water,” these indigenous people revered their land, considered the River Squamish sacred and worshipped the cedar as their tree of life. The thunderbird is their symbol and the mythical bird lives in a mountain called the Black Tusk. Their villages on the banks of the river are ancient, some of them are as old as 12,000 years. And the town itself is named after them and their language. Somewhere in the woods, we spot boards that tell us a little more about them, the trees they worshipped, the plants that healed them, and the animals they hunted. The spirit of the cedar was considered essential to their very basis of life as it gave them everything from clothing to canoes – even a baby’s diaper was made from the bark of the tree. The trees were never cut, only stripped of what is essential, and were left to heal by themselves.

The river on the other hand was their lifeline. The people lived on the banks of the river that gave them food – the salmon, which come here in huge numbers to spawn and then die. Bald eagles flock here to hunt the salmon. I stand there trying to spot one of the raptors but I am unlucky.

The Squamish people have left every piece of land here with their own myths and legends, history and lore, like the story of how their ancestors escaped the Great Flood. As the waters rose, some of the survivors noticed that only Mount Garibaldi or Ch’kai was towering over them while the rest of the mountains were submerged. They twisted the branches of the cedar to make a thick rope and tied it to the peak of the mountain and canoed their way to it. Even today it is believed that the rope remains at the peak. The mountain, however, was referred to as “a dirty place” because of its physical appearance with its jagged edges yet it is very revered.

The story ends and I am lost in a world of blues and greens. My trail ends in a spectacular view. Surrounding me are the coastal mountains, most of them still volcanic in nature and may erupt anytime. The adventurous lot leave for rock climbing, mountain biking, wind surfing and hiking but I head to the Summit Restaurant to tuck in some delicious food, overlooking the mountains and the fjords.