I can’t tell you what Sointula is. I can’t give you a definition. There wasn’t a single moment that defined Sointula for me. Still, after visiting the island once and then again for a longer time, I can’t figure it out. Sointula wouldn’t be watching for whales in Beautiful Bay, or a storm ripping through the treetops, which poke into the mist. It’s more, it’s whales and empty net houses along the old town site, or the picture in the crammed museum, the one where a boy entertains two beautiful young girls in dresses and sun umbrellas. They’re in a rowboat making a Sunday trip across the bay. That was, but isn’t Sointula anymore.

One of Vancouver Island region’s special places, Sointula is the main settlement on Malcolm Island, which sits off the coast of Port McNeil. The BC ferries route runs in a triangle, starting in Port McNeil. It makes a straight run to Sointula, hangs a left towards Alert Bay on Cormorant Island, then swings back to complete the triangle at Port McNeil. The first time I visited Sointula we were on and off in a day. That short trip planted a seed in my mind, which would grow until I visited again two summers later.

I have a picture I took on Sointula that explains my feelings. After the first night on my second trip, taken at about six in the morning. My dog Jack, then a puppy, is looking up at me with what could be mistaken as curiosity. The wind is ripping through his hair; he is standing in tall sea grass. Off in the background there are a few toppled fishing boats, covered in green algae as the sea consumes them. Jacks eyes speak, not of curiousity; something more complex. He is saying, somewhat scholarly “Seriously, what the hell are we doing soaking wet on this cold beach, and what is that stupid thing in your hand that clicks.” I think he also wanted to say that I should have let him fight the bear and that he thinks I’m a coward. It was about four in the morning when Jack barked. We were camped in the best spot at the Beautiful Bay campground, which sits along a little road that separated our tent from the beach. We had fallen asleep to gentle waves.

Alyson said, “maybe he needs to go pee, you should take him outside.” I was about to snap back that maybe she should, but I was rudely interrupted by the source of Jacks barking. A loud “HUMPH” followed quickly by footsteps then a deep “GRUNT” made my snide retort morph into a quivering whisper “G-G-Grizzzzzly!”
The bear, after island hopping across the adjacent Broughton Archipelago, decided it would be a blast to pace outside our tent. Silently, I motioned Alyson to pin down Jack (who was likely trying to say “let me at him!”) so he wouldn’t make more noise, while I grabbed my camp axe and my knife. In silence we waited. I whispered to Alyson that I loved her and if anything happened she should take Jack and flee. But nothing happened, no sound, nothing. After about an hour or maybe ten minutes, we ran for the car. My short-lived heroism had turned to cowardice. We jumped in the car and tried to speed off, but something was holding the car back and a crashing came from the tent. I thought to my self “The Grizzly is trying to eat my Volkswagen!” Actually it was just that I had tied our tarp to the cars roof rack, for lack of enough suitable trees. I got out and frantically freed the little Jetta and we sped back down gravel roads to the center of Sointula.

We loafed around town in the dark then slept the rest of the daylight away in the car. On our way back to camp we stopped along the old seaside to take pictures where I photographed Jack, looking upset.
Sointula was founded by a group of Socialist Finns hoping to build a utopian society, a wonderful idea that quickly went to shambles. I will save you the detailed history here, but I recommend a stop at the museum, which will explain, in depth, what happened in this crazy little place at the beginning of the 20th Century. That day we drove outside Sointula to the farthest end of the island. At Mitchell Bay we took a slow windy road that led us past a group of picturesque houses; houses that pushed the road right up against the shore. We looked up from our car at our dreams, houses full of flowers, gardens and simple architecture. Fences made not of white pickets, but twisty driftwood. I saw myself sitting on the porch and growing old and never having to hear a city again.

I am not sure what Sointula is. Being there makes me feel like a distracted Frontiersman. The Finns who first arrived here were not seasoned veterans in carving out a rural lifestyle. In fact they were university students who, distracted by the modern world had probably never used a shovel. Yet even when their original dream of a utopia failed, many stayed on. The original lure of a perfect society gone, it seems many fell in love with the lifestyle of a homesteader. Until this day there remains about 40 residents fluent in Finnish. So what of those from our generation who have similar souls, those lead on to compete in city life, while always looking for something else. Where do we go now that the land has all been spoken for and homesteading seems only a pastime or hobby?

Maybe Sointula is a place of ideals; maybe so many have come here in search of a perfect life that you catch yourself dreaming about it as well. We returned to our campsite that night after debating whether or not to flee the grizzly. We locked Jack in the car, and drifted off to sleep to the sound of a pounding storm. Yet again we woke up to the grunts, and the grumbling of the grizzly. Yet again nothing happened, and yet again we fled to the safety of the car. We spent that night grumbling, soaking wet and cramped up in the Volkswagen. But when we left that next morning, I couldn’t help but stare at the pastures with their tall grass, the beach with the old Finnish boathouses and long for something better than I would be returning to in Victoria.

Story Byron Fry - Photography Byron Fry & Snorri Gunnarsson

 

Tags: bc, british columbia, byron, canada, jack the dog, Malcolm Island, Port Mcneill, snorri, Sointula, vancouver island

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