The island as a body, read for its contents.

A bluff above a marsh in Nanaimo, and a question that is already a kind of taking.

Not remembered. Recycled.

One bluff here above a marsh, one there in the Ogilvies. Carrying both in the same chest.

Whose bluff, whose marsh, whose watershed. A question set down for the length of an afternoon.

Written somewhere between frozen landscapes, rocked to sleep by the rhythm of rails.

For the dreamers and the wanderers.

Vancouver Island isn’t just where I live, it’s where I belong.

Sometimes the best way to find yourself is to get thoroughly lost.

Inspired by Camus and countless kilometers of trail.