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A Road Rally and a Stone on Dallas Road Beach


The Road Rally

The checkered flag waved for the cameras. My husband and rally partner, Guy, revved the engine of our red 4-wheel drive in a display of chauvinistic strength. It was a weekend-long "Backroads Rally" for travel writers and photographers sponsored by Victoria, British Columbia, and the Islands Tourism. Our mandate: roam Vancouver Island in Budget rental cars, resplendent with their "Supernatural B.C." license plates, while exploring and collecting souvenirs reminiscent of our experiences. The rally was to be a treasure hunt that finished two days later with a "Road Kill" dinner where we would report our findings back to the judges. The prize for the duo that put on the most mileage and spun the best island tale was a beautiful set of leather bomber jackets, courtesy of Victoria’s revered Empress hotel.

Our main competitors were two writers dolled up like Susan Sarendon and Geena Davis in the female bonding road trip movie Thelma and Louise. The gals looked the part, and acted Vancouver Island-wise, but I quickly noticed Thelma had her movies mixed – she sported Lolita shades.

The checkered flags waved again. This time it was for real. Vroom. Vroom. Guy did his male display thing again. The Thelma and Louise impostors responded by throwing their heads back and laughing uproariously. My eyes narrowed, as I smelled the burning rubber from their canary-yellow Budget Mustang convertible. I figured the gals were fast in every way. They had the top down, although it was a cool and misty morning and they were dressed in provocatively thin clothing. Guy, always the competitor, aggressively threw our vehicle into first, and we lurched out of the Empress hotel’s parking lot after them.

I was worried. Thelma and Louise were pros. They had already hit the local "Sally Anne" for props, red stilettos and Grace Kelly scarves. Worse, Thelma was a local, familiar with the territory, and she'd participated in this same rally game last year. But we were cunning too.

Guy and I, unlike those clever gals, had done no preparation. So we put on our thinking caps and asked ourselves: What would a wily tourist do when trying to discover the best back road on Vancouver Island? Yes, of course, Victoria Tourist Information.

"I am looking for the most beautiful drive on Vancouver Island. What route would you recommend?" I asked the proud islander who worked behind the tourism desk.

"A drive down Dallas Road," Amelio informed in a thick Mexico City accent. The oh-so-British, tulip-festooned city of Victoria is more cosmopolitan than I imagined. "If you have more than today," continued the dark-skinned young man," drive the West Coast Highway towards Sooke. If you still have time, drive north to Sidney then take the ferry to Salt Spring Island for the Saturday market."

Courtesy of Tourism Victoria. Serenity can be the tourism ticket when you take a long drive."Phone your mother," was Guy’s greeting as he waited impatiently in our rented red rally off-road vehicle. I dialed my mom.

"You’re in the Yukon?" she asked. The cell phone connection was bad and so is Mom's hearing.

"No Mom, that was Tyson (our adventure loving son). I'm on Vancouver Island, in Victoria." My voice was getting louder.

"In Vietnam again." It was almost an accusation.

"Mom, Victoria, British Columbia, where your brother Vic lives." Now our conversation began to make sense.

"Your sister Ruth is in Victoria, too, for an old friend’s wedding," Mom informed, taking this two-sisters-visiting-the-same-place-at-the-same-time coincidence with aplomb.

Painting by Barb Wood courtesy of The Empress Hotel. Vancouver Island's colonial daughter.I already knew that Ruth was in Victoria, but she had forgotten to tell me where she and her husband, Brian, were staying. The previous evening, ensconced in the old-fashioned window seat of our suite of the luxe Empress hotel, I’d opened Victoria’s Yellow Pages with the bright idea that maybe with a little detective work, I’d find out where they were and surprise them. Ruth had no idea we were on her touristic turf. My fingers flicked down the first page of hotels, then the next. I soon figured I'd need a secretary and an expense account to call Victoria’s myriad of hotels. Returning to my glass of island-grown wine, I shot myself back in time to childhood and remembered my sister Ruth saying repeatedly, "Leave us alone. You’re too young to play with me and my friends. Stop following us!" I closed the Yellow Pages with what my mother would call a childish bang.

After telling Mom I loved her, I stuffed the cell phone into my camera bag. Guy and I drove past pebble beaches stroked by silvery water; by old Victorian mansions, now B & Bs with creaky wooden porches and bay windows frothed white with lacy curtains; by beach hotels of cedar washed silver by Vancouver Island’s glistening rain. I wondered if my sister was sitting behind a peek-a-boo lace curtain taking tea, or maybe downing West Coast-strength coffee at a beach hotel while watching sea gulls reel against the softly weeping sky.

Guy and I drove and drove down a spectacular Dallas Road. Like an oceanfront veranda it hugged the water close. The cell phone rang and Guy pulled over into a parking lot to talk business. Lifting my eyes, I saw a four-story hostelry, the windows like staring eyes, sashes painted colonial brown. The Oak Bay Beach Hotel was Tudor style, true to the British heritage the British Columbia's provincial capital, Victoria, so proudly displays. I decided to check out the hotel and ask for my sister.

Courtesy of the Oak Bay Beach Hotel. Caption: On the beach at Dallas Road. "Do you have a Ruth and Brian Hastings from Winnipeg, Manitoba registered?" I asked coolly while I assessed the lobby to determine if it possessed enough charm to merit inclusion in my rally story.

The young woman tapped her keyboard and eyed her computer screen. "Whom may I say is calling?" Her fingers dialed the room.

" Just say it’s her sister," I said, not believing my luck; then not believing Ruth would still be dallying in her room. It was already late morning. I’d leave her a sisterly note.

"Room 502."

Stunned and elated, I followed the receptionist's directions down a long hall.

Ruth stood waiting at the open door, her chin-length blonde hair and white designer tracksuit barely damp with rain. "Brian is jogging," she said as we kissed hello. "I was with him, and came back just a few minutes ago. I forgot to call the office. What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

I related the incredible coincidence of Guy stopping here and of our weekend media rally.

"Come rug shopping with me," she said.

How could I resist? She is my older sister. I do anything she says. Where she goes I follow. We beckoned out her window to Guy, who looked amused. Then Ruth’s husband Brian, raining sweat, came loping off Dallas Road and into the hotel parking lot. The four of us were together again.

 

"The Dallas Road beach is fabulous," Brian said. He is a sportsman, an athlete and above all, a nature lover. Nothing pleases Brian more than a deserted beach and the sight of first growth trees.

"Take a look at the beach while we shower," directed Ruth. "We’ll meet in the parking lot in twenty minutes, noon, and you’ll come with us to shop for oriental rugs. David's wedding isn't until tomorrow."

Courtesy of Tourism Victoria. A stone on Dallas beach

A long-legged heron, soft feathers ruffled by a gentle Pacific breeze, perched on a silvery heap of driftwood on Dallas Road's rocky beach, just feet from where I stood. I raised my camera and shot frame after frame, but the bird refused to turn its head towards me. Thoughtlessly, I picked up a small smooth grey stone to throw in hopes I might startle the four-foot tall blue heron into looking my way or spreading its wings. I raised my arm, then recanted and noiselessly dropped the pebble into my coat pocket.

The lightness of being

After a few wonderful hours with my sister, only marginally marred by the guilt of taking time out from the media rally, Guy and I were on the road again. We hastened to follow Emilio's recommendations and drove northwest on the island's West Coast Highway to the most scenic drive on Vancouver Island. Once you leave Victoria and environs the bright, yet old-fashioned memories of rose bushes, flower pots and Victorian lace recede and the terrain reverts back to nature. The journey becomes a winding, never-ending blur of velvet green forest and ebony seas. Then, around a curve I saw a simple sign announcing "Lighthouse Retreat."

Lighthouse © Virginia Boyd. Named for the natural light, both moon and sun that fill this handcrafted boutique retreat."Stop" I said to Guy. "The name looks promising. Let's get a rally souvenir."

A phone box stood sentry at the entrance. Cedar stairs wound down a cliff towards a watercolor of sea, sky, and Washington's ice-tipped Olympic mountains. The Lighthouse fronted the Strait of Juan de Fuca and an endless fathom of striated blue. A sign cautioned: In the interest of guest privacy telephone before entering.

I dialed, listened, then hung up. "Let's go." Guy, impatient to continue our quest, maneuvered me toward our vehicle, but my insistence on exploring the place prevailed and I dragged him down the stairs towards the light-filled beach house. Owner Virginia Boyd, talented photographer, artist, designer extraordinaire, and New Age hippie was tending her wildflowers. Nonplussed by our uninvited entry, the blonde Virginia and her retriever delighted us with a tour. While we were chatting and admiring the silver hand-hewn cedar, hand-cut shakes, doorframes fresh with periwinkle blue, and a Jacuzzi tub set like a crystal in the glassed-in Moonbath suite, Virginia provided us with a road rally souvenir. It was a piece of driftwood and a heron's feather tied with a rope fashioned from seaweed. Then she made a chance recommendation, "You must meet Ethan. He is a fascinating character as well as an artist." Virginia touched a hand-painted stone that hung on a silken cord around her neck. "You'll find Ethan at the Saturday market on Salt Spring Island."

Market Day at Salt Spring

A stream of gulf-style sunlight warmed the sunset-colored jars of homemade organic preserves, passed over the hand-dipped honeycomb candles and incense sticks, glittered like fairy dust on tiny vials of dense patchouli oil and hand-blown bongs used to inhale the cannabis home-grown on the island. Finally, it settled on a magic crystal displayed to clear advantage on a hemp cloth covered table of the outdoor market. The market buzzed like a beehive preparing for the birth of a new queen. Ethan stood calm, yet radiating stellar energy, beside a tree hung with hand-painted necklaces. As Virginia had indicated, he was impossible to miss. He looked like that 1960s lyric about a longhaired leaping gnome dressed to West Coast perfection in bell-bottom leather. A hand-loomed scarf roped round his tanned forehead Apache-style. Black curls tumbled over his square shoulders.

Ethan said... © Victoria Brooks"You must be Ethan," Guy said simply.

There was no lull. Ethan responded cryptically. "Although you knew of me before I knew of you, and we are strangers – I think you might find this stone prophetic of your journey... I picked it up yesterday morning at the beach on Dallas Road." Ethan held in his hand a smooth dark stone similar to the one I'd placed in my pocket the previous morning and instantly forgotten. Ethan's stone was painted on one side with a miniature blue heron; the stone was still wet with lacquer.

"This is impossible," said Guy, his mind reeling through the daisy chain of coincidences: stopping on Dallas Road, finding my sister, being directed to Dallas beach, the heron and the real stone on Dallas Beach, and now the one snuggled in Ethan's large palm. Guy looked from Ethan to me and shook his head in total disbelief.

"Incredible," I pondered, too, for a minute and then realized I'd never understand.

I thought the beam of sunlight must have bounced off the hand-blown bong and into my brain. I snapped my fingers, "Yes, incredible. I've got my road rally story."

(I pictured Guy and I proudly wearing the prize bomber jackets.) Sheer luck, odd coincidence, or mysticism, I didn't care.

At the Road Kill finale, I flashed a smile toward our competitors, those movie-style sisters Thelma and Louise, bonding while roaming Vancouver Island in their canary yellow convertible with the "Supernatural B.C." license plate.

For information on mystic Vancouver Island contact Ethan. Just kidding, I think…

To contact Victoria Tourism: www.tourismvictoria.com or Tel: 1-800-663-3883

For information on Oak Bay Beach Hotel located by the beach on Dallas Road telephone toll free: 1-800-668-7758 or visit www.oakbaybeachhotel.bc.ca

For information about the Lighthouse Retreat located on a cliff # 107 West Coast Road Sooke, British Columbia, telephone toll free: 888-805-4448 or Tel/Fax: 250-646-2345.

Catch the ferry to visit the Salt Spring Island market every Saturday, rain or shine, April to October 8:30 to 3:30 pm. Visit www.saltspringmarket.com for more details.

For Budget car and truck rental call toll free: 1-800-268-8900 or check their Victoria website.

To contact Victoria Brooks please write to editor@greatestescapes.com



For more BC information go to travel.bc.ca
How could I resist? She is my older sister. I do anything she says. Where she goes I follow. We beckoned out her window to Guy, who looked amused. Then Ruth’s husband Brian, raining sweat, came loping off Dallas Road and into the hotel parking lot. The four of us were together again.

"The Dallas Road beach is fabulous," Brian said. He is a sportsman, an athlete and above all, a nature lover. Nothing pleases Brian more than a deserted beach and the sight of first growth trees.

"Take a look at the beach while we shower," directed Ruth. "We’ll meet in the parking lot in twenty minutes, noon, and you’ll come with us to shop for oriental rugs. David's wedding isn't until tomorrow."

Courtesy of Tourism Victoria. A stone on Dallas beach

A long-legged heron, soft feathers ruffled by a gentle Pacific breeze, perched on a silvery heap of driftwood on Dallas Road's rocky beach, just feet from where I stood. I raised my camera and shot frame after frame, but the bird refused to turn its head towards me. Thoughtlessly, I picked up a small smooth grey stone to throw in hopes I might startle the four-foot tall blue heron into looking my way or spreading its wings. I raised my arm, then recanted and noiselessly dropped the pebble into my coat pocket.

The lightness of being

After a few wonderful hours with my sister, only marginally marred by the guilt of taking time out from the media rally, Guy and I were on the road again. We hastened to follow Emilio's recommendations and drove northwest on the island's West Coast Highway to the most scenic drive on Vancouver Island. Once you leave Victoria and environs the bright, yet old-fashioned memories of rose bushes, flower pots and Victorian lace recede and the terrain reverts back to nature. The journey becomes a winding, never-ending blur of velvet green forest and ebony seas. Then, around a curve I saw a simple sign announcing "Lighthouse Retreat."

Lighthouse © Virginia Boyd. Named for the natural light, both moon and sun that fill this handcrafted boutique retreat."Stop" I said to Guy. "The name looks promising. Let's get a rally souvenir."

A phone box stood sentry at the entrance. Cedar stairs wound down a cliff towards a watercolor of sea, sky, and Washington's ice-tipped Olympic mountains. The Lighthouse fronted the Strait of Juan de Fuca and an endless fathom of striated blue. A sign cautioned: In the interest of guest privacy telephone before entering.

I dialed, listened, then hung up. "Let's go." Guy, impatient to continue our quest, maneuvered me toward our vehicle, but my insistence on exploring the place prevailed and I dragged him down the stairs towards the light-filled beach house. Owner Virginia Boyd, talented photographer, artist, designer extraordinaire, and New Age hippie was tending her wildflowers. Nonplussed by our uninvited entry, the blonde Virginia and her retriever delighted us with a tour. While we were chatting and admiring the silver hand-hewn cedar, hand-cut shakes, doorframes fresh with periwinkle blue, and a Jacuzzi tub set like a crystal in the glassed-in Moonbath suite, Virginia provided us with a road rally souvenir. It was a piece of driftwood and a heron's feather tied with a rope fashioned from seaweed. Then she made a chance recommendation, "You must meet Ethan. He is a fascinating character as well as an artist." Virginia touched a hand-painted stone that hung on a silken cord around her neck. "You'll find Ethan at the Saturday market on Salt Spring Island."

Market Day at Salt Spring

A stream of gulf-style sunlight warmed the sunset-colored jars of homemade organic preserves, passed over the hand-dipped honeycomb candles and incense sticks, glittered like fairy dust on tiny vials of dense patchouli oil and hand-blown bongs used to inhale the cannabis home-grown on the island. Finally, it settled on a magic crystal displayed to clear advantage on a hemp cloth covered table of the outdoor market. The market buzzed like a beehive preparing for the birth of a new queen. Ethan stood calm, yet radiating stellar energy, beside a tree hung with hand-painted necklaces. As Virginia had indicated, he was impossible to miss. He looked like that 1960s lyric about a longhaired leaping gnome dressed to West Coast perfection in bell-bottom leather. A hand-loomed scarf roped round his tanned forehead Apache-style. Black curls tumbled over his square shoulders.

Ethan said... © Victoria Brooks"You must be Ethan," Guy said simply.

There was no lull. Ethan responded cryptically. "Although you knew of me before I knew of you, and we are strangers – I think you might find this stone prophetic of your journey... I picked it up yesterday morning at the beach on Dallas Road." Ethan held in his hand a smooth dark stone similar to the one I'd placed in my pocket the previous morning and instantly forgotten. Ethan's stone was painted on one side with a miniature blue heron; the stone was still wet with lacquer.

"This is impossible," said Guy, his mind reeling through the daisy chain of coincidences: stopping on Dallas Road, finding my sister, being directed to Dallas beach, the heron and the real stone on Dallas Beach, and now the one snuggled in Ethan's large palm. Guy looked from Ethan to me and shook his head in total disbelief.

"Incredible," I pondered, too, for a minute and then realized I'd never understand.

I thought the beam of sunlight must have bounced off the hand-blown bong and into my brain. I snapped my fingers, "Yes, incredible. I've got my road rally story."

(I pictured Guy and I proudly wearing the prize bomber jackets.) Sheer luck, odd coincidence, or mysticism, I didn't care.

At the Road Kill finale, I flashed a smile toward our competitors, those movie-style sisters Thelma and Louise, bonding while roaming Vancouver Island in their canary yellow convertible with the "Supernatural B.C." license plate.

For information on mystic Vancouver Island contact Ethan. Just kidding, I think…

To contact Victoria Tourism: www.tourismvictoria.com or Tel: 1-800-663-3883

For information on Oak Bay Beach Hotel located by the beach on Dallas Road telephone toll free: 1-800-668-7758 or visit www.oakbaybeachhotel.bc.ca

For information about the Lighthouse Retreat located on a cliff # 107 West Coast Road Sooke, British Columbia, telephone toll free: 888-805-4448 or Tel/Fax: 250-646-2345.

Catch the ferry to visit the Salt Spring Island market every Saturday, rain or shine, April to October 8:30 to 3:30 pm. Visit www.saltspringmarket.com for more details.

For Budget car and truck rental call toll free: 1-800-268-8900 or check their Victoria website.

To contact Victoria Brooks please write to editor@greatestescapes.com



For more BC information go to travel.bc.ca