One

From Port Alberni, there are two roads. To the right, a paved road leads to the hippie driftwood shacks of Tofino. To the left, a dirt road disappears into dense forest. This is the road to Bamfield—sixty miles strewn with beer cans, mufflers, hubcaps, and odd bits of clothing. Deep potholes, washouts, exhaust-snorting oversized logging trucks, and countless unsigned side roads put those who dare journey to this fishing village in danger. But they come, those that seek end-of-the-road places.

Having survived the Bamfield road, newcomers find themselves on the Jonsson Machine Shop dock, facing Bamfield Inlet. Here, they can buy candy and gas and fishing gear, and get their tires fixed. Katrin, the village matriarch and postmistress, works behind the counter and she may jaw with them a bit.

Nearby are the village café, the community hall, the volunteer fire department, and the Bamfield Marine Station. But a boardwalk—lined with tidy clapboard houses, the post office and general store, the lifesaving station, and Packers, the residence of transient young people—suggesting an earlier time, draws their attention across the narrow inlet to west Bamfield, on Mills Peninsula.

The August morning sun had warmed the gray boardwalk for over two hours before the first young Bamfielders left their houses and wandered—scratching and stretching and assessing the prospects of the new day—to their favourite hangout in front of the Bamfield General Store. Here, they waited for opportunities to run errands for the storekeeper in exchange for beer and cigarettes or helping summer residents haul luggage up from the government float for highly valued cash. Mostly, these hippies, locally referred to as transient young people, are accepted by the old-timers, many who are vets or war brides, all who are conservative.

“Hey, Spike. You seen Gaz?”

Spike drank deeply then passed his near-empty beer to his buddy.

“Nope. That cop was here. Maybe he’s lying low.”

Mr. Meadows, tidy as a tick, unlatched the door to the Bamfield General Store and dumped his morning compost on the rocky shore. The half-rotten produce spattered on the beach and Bamfield’s famous shit-hawks came soaring and squawking out of God-only-knows-where. Thomas, a battle-torn cat, watched as the gray-and-white gulls threatened each other and gulped their morning meal. An immature bird, not yet graced with the white mantle of adulthood, buried its head inside a pink grapefruit rind. Thomas laid his tattered ears back and pounced, clenching his teeth deep into the bird’s neck, next to the base of the skull. He gave a sharp shake. A shortenedsquawk and a death flutter of wings alerted the other birds, who glided a short distance to safety and forgetfulness.

The spectators gave a cheer as Thomas exited with his morning meal. A tossed beer can, the remains of a shared breakfast, rattled down the beach. Mr. Meadows slapped his slopbucket against the boardwalk handrail, dislo