A beautiful old wooden boat. The inside passage between Vancouver Island and the mainland of British Columbia. Storms. Calm. Rapids. Up Inlets. Up the rivers at the heads of those Inlets, eyes out for bears, sandbars, root balls hidden in the glacial dust. Desperate life and death decisions. Quiet anchorages. Places that were once busy now largely deserted. No roads other than logging roads that nowhere lead back to somewhere. No hydro lines, no telephone lines. No lines at all for most of it. Remote. Mostly as it was after the glaciers pulled up high in the mountains. Rock and the shadow of glaciers, their imprint everywhere