Island Time - Part Four

Lewis Channel and Discovery Islands - northern tip of Cortes Island on left

There have been times in my life when a serendipitous moment has presented itself to me… something wonderful, and unexpected. Like the time I was checking out of a small hotel in the German Alps and the clerk asked, “Are you going to the cow festival?” I had no idea what a cow festival was, let alone that one was taking place… but I leapt at the chance to find out. Later I watched, and listened to the echoing clamor of cowbells as cows were being brought down from their summer grazing spots in the mountains… a great procession of herders, and their festively adorned prize cows. It was the German version of a county fair, complete with vendors selling farm equipment, a beer garden, and country folks making ribald jokes about bulls and heifers. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And so too a February night ten years ago when we slipped through moonlit trees and found Gorge Hall.

Sunday Night at Gorge Hall

We were only going for a short walk, to get some fresh air on this Sunday evening, our last in Gorge Harbor. Instead we were transported back into another time. As we walked through the woods along a gravel road, we could hear the sound of music coming through moonlit trees. Curiosity drew us closer. Numerous cars were parked around an old wooden structure known as the Gorge Community Hall. Soft lighting spilled through multi-paned windows, and when we drew closer we could hear scattered applause.

We stepped onto a covered porch, past neatly stacked firewood and into an entry. There was no one to sell us a ticket or hand out a printed program, only the welcoming feel of warm air against our chilled cheeks, the woodsy smell of smoke, and an inviting fire in a side-room fireplace. Through an open door we could see some thirty people seated in casual rows of folding chairs, children sitting Indian-fashion on the floor or standing at the edge of a small, illuminated stage. The only other lighting in the room was candlelight. A man and woman were on the stage, each with an acoustic guitar. The man lightly joked about his Jewish heritage and his playing partner’s Catholic background. She was colorfully dressed in a red velvet vest, dark patterned pants and bright orange silk scarf wound artfully through her black hair. They began to sing a folk ballad about a friend turning in another friend to the Mounties... “Is that being a buddy? No! No! That’s not a buddy.”

We were strangers here and yet as we slipped into the room, the eyes I felt upon me were accepting. I settled into the folding chair and became one of them for a while, tapping my toes, laughing, joining in when the audience was asked to sing the chorus, “No! No! That’s not a buddy.”

There was no self-consciousness about these folks. People come and go - to have a smoke outside, to check on a youngster up front, and see to the wood stove in back. A young woman walks quietly with her baby to a long bench at the rear of the room. She leans against the back wall - her nursing child at breast - she laughs and sings with the rest of us.

To some this place is a backwater, but there was nothing backwater about these performers. They were touring professionals playing to a small, appreciative audience of oystermen in gumboots and duct-tape-patched jackets, grey-haired retirees, a young couple wearing matching Nehru-style hats, children of assorted ages, and a teenager with Rastafarian hair. This is an island of rugged individuals. But on Sunday night at Gorge Hall, it is a community.

During our month-long stay here, Scott the store manager kept pointing to the bulletin board outside the Marina General Store, urging us to attend some of the events at Gorge Hall. “It’ll give you a chance to see the island folk. Everyone comes.” Stepping out into the cold night air as we left the Hall later, Bob turned to me and said, “What a perfect way to end our stay at Gorge Harbor.” I agreed. (February 1998)

… P. L. Morningstar
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