I can go for weeks without BC ever crossing my mind. But then it sneaks up behind me, whispers in my ear. And I am crippled, like I’ve lost someone dear in my life.
Close to midnight, they shut down the chairlifts at Cypress. The mountain becomes itself, as a boat does when you shut the engine off and the sails take over. The trails are deserted, the wind rustles through the trees. The mountain sighs, thankful for a rest. I’d skulk at the top waiting for that moment, waiting for the whirring and clicking to end, for my solitary ski overlooking the lights of Vancouver.
Someone is at Doc Morgan’s pub on Bowen Island, drinking my cold beer. Someone else is paddling my kayak. Someone else is living in my tiny, one-room apartment on the north shore, which I don’t mind. But I do mind that they’re a five minute walk away from my favourite trail along the Seymour River. It’s not fair. The rest of Canada should step aside so that I can be closer to BC, my exciting western mistress, while remaining loyally wedded to my good maritime wife.