Lund 2026
Thursday August 20
After a multiple year absence from Lund induced by a wish to travel to new places abroad and also to the need to distance ourselves since having sold Knoll House, in early summer we decided to return to there, though only for a brief visit.
The lengthy journey began at the SLO airport where we learned that its first leg, to San Francisco, was indefinitely delayed. We were rerouted to LA, where the flight to Vancouver was also delayed, threatening a missed connection to the last leg from Vancouver to Powell River. Despite the spectacular views from the small Pacific Coastal plane, rather than eager, I was apprehensive about how I would feel and we’d be received at our destination. I decided to elevate my mood with microdoses of a gummy for the rest of the trip. Upon arrival we connected amiably with the car rental agent who knows Tai and Theo. Things warmed up further during a delicious meal at the Indian restaurant across from the Mill, including a can of Zunga beer brewed down the street.
We couldnt meet Sandy, the editor of the Barnacle as planned because she was just recovering from a bad fall which left her hospitalized and recuperating far south of town.
The AirBandB rental cabin perched on a cliff above Lund delivered its promise of elegance, privacy, a hot tub, magnificent views and a 138 step staircase down to the water.
Friday August 21
In the morning we met Peter and Margaret at Nancy’s and went to the Water Taxi dock to buy tickets for the crossing to Savary where Peter had invited us to visit his son Towagh and family at their vacation home and to bring along a lunch.
The Savary land taxi, a rickety pickup truck driven by a very friendly local, met us at the dock. During the bumpy ride through the ever more prestigious and densely settled island he told of being in a Sun Valley Idaho bar several years ago and mentioning Savary to a friend, when a guy sitting next to them piped up: “I know Savary, I grew up in Lund and my parents own a place with a view of the Island.” Had to be our son Joe!
Despite his characteristic reserve, Towagh welcomed us warmly to his place perched on cliff on the north shore surrounded by tall trees and no neighbors in sight with splendid views of Desolation Sound and the Coast Range
It was a part of the Island I’d never been to, as grand as the South Beach area, but more secluded. He introduced us to his wife Rebekah, their two young daughters, Rose and Grace, and his visiting father in law Robert.
There was another house under construction at the back of the lot across the road and a driftwood archway he’d built and a stone path leading across the lawn to a balcony at the head of a stylish staircase which I later took down to the beach for a refreshing swim.
From the shore I saw Knoll House across the strait.
We’ve been acquainted with Towagh since his home birth at Peter’s tiny cabin up Baggi Road in 1975.
One of the Lund hippy kids in Joe’s cohort, his grandfather was another German Jewish refugee whose path of escape across the Pyrenees Peter retraced with him on an arduous backpacking trip. Keeping the Tla’amin name given by his parents, he studied native cultures at McGill university and subsequently developed computer programs and other instruments to facilitate First Nations’ documentation of former settlement crucial to the ongoing success of their land claims with federal and provincial governments and of his growing business enterprise: https://kwusen.ca/towagh-behr.
He alternated describing this work to us with responding patiently to the insistent demands of his daughters.
Rose, the older one, about 7, kept occupied painting designs on the pailfuls of shells gathered on the beach.
I expressed my appreciation for her artwork with an offer of 5 dollars to buy one, but instead of being thrilled she countered with 10 and we eventually reached a bargain of 8. I told her that at home in California we have two ceramic pots thrown by her grandmother Carol at Cranberry Pottery 40 years ago on prominent display in our living room.
After returning to the mainland we retreated to our gorgeous cabin for a nap. Afterwards I descended the artful stairway down the rock cliff to the beach for another swim in the cove below.
Out in the water I realized that before the construction of the luxurious houses surrounding it at the top it had been a booming ground for logs harvested from the Lund peninsula I’d watched in operation with fascinated horror in 2006.
Back to the cabin after a soak in the hot tub, Jan told me she’d spoken on the phone to Malerie who was now living with her new husband, Bryan, on an adjacent rocky knoll. We were to come over immediately.
Malerie introduced us as the first people she met in Powell River in 1970 through Oscar Green, the emigre Arizona real estate agent, at the Salal pickers’ warehouse in Wildwood. Bryan had been manager of the Mill that dominated the areas economy for a hundred years, now shut down. I leapt into sharing recollections of my traumatic 1972-3 winter work stint there on the flume, the green chain, the block loader and as pulp tester.
Jan turned the conversation to them. They met at a dementia caregiver support group which she led and he attended for seven years during his beloved wife’s tragic decline. Years after her death they met again and eventually married. Jan and I were shocked by the first part of the story which mirrored that of two other couples in the neighborhood and our own growing concerns. Then there was catch up on both sides about our children and grandchildren. After three hours of animated talk, little food and lots of wine, we departed. For the first time in memory Jan was missing her her purse. and it took us all to find it under the couch where she’d sat.
Saturday August 22
I got up early to continue a lengthy search for permissions for the few images in the Shakespeare essay I’d sent off to the editor the week before. It turned out that this will be impossible because the huge academic publisher, Nature/Springer went from non-profit to commercial, eliminating the opportunity for writers to have Fair Use access for copyrighted material.
Jan emailed Frank C. about her intent to return the rebozo she brought along that his mother Barbara wove for her in the ‘70’s. He replied regretting his absence but with hope to see us next year. We drove down through the Redwood forest planted by his father Warren anyway, and met the caretaker Hailey, granddaughter of Carol and Wally, and daughter of Karma, contemporary and friend of Joe’s.
After a short walk to their beaver pond we headed up to Knoll House, the trees noticeably taller than 3 years ago. We were welcomed with warm hugs by all four family members and repeated gratitude for the picture history of Knoll house I sent them after the transition.
Peter and Ronnie, Tai’s parents arrived and Theo served a great pancake brunch to us hungry guests.
They reported that the property transaction in collaboration with the neighbor has worked out smoothly. Tai told us about her new full time job, working remotely from the woods as a consultant for companies and non-profits developing re-use programs. Theo said he still likes his job working with addicts in town which provides a flexible schedule and low demand. He showed us his artwork in the cabin and his house renovations which involved a new addition for Wilder’s room and a combination of two tiny bedrooms into one for Renwyn. I walked down to the bluff where the grasses and mosses were dry and the view remained unobstructed.
After three hours, Jan and I went back to the cabin for a nap. I swam again. Then we went to the Lund café for dinner where we were seated at a table with a friendly couple from the Netherlands.
Sunday August 23
I dropped Jan off at Lund where she met Karl in the Tug-Ghum Gallery and caught up on the last 40 years since seeing him, including the details of Stan’s recent peaceful death up the coast at Galley Bay during the former communards’ annual summer gathering.
I drove up to Chapman’s Road and met Peter B. for a familiar, easy hike to Hurtado Point. Then back to Lund to meet Jan and go briefly to Tidelands Gallery in Finn Bay to visit with Prashant, the artist, writer, musician, and world traveller, in his little studio.
We agreed to return to shop after the lunch planned with Peter, Margaret and Juliet. We drove to Wildwood, shmoozed over food and drink under a grand Tlaamin wood carving.
Juliet told us that the crazy three story log house that she and Steve lived in and that she sold after he died was recently used as the location for the upcoming feature film of Eden Express, Mark Vonnegut’s 1975 memoir of life at the commune up Powell Lake that descended from Utopian aspiration to clinical madness, a book that I found profound enough to teach in my 1976-77 Canadian lit classes at Malaspina College.
After completing the purchase back at Tidelands, we retreated for a last nap and swim and took up the invitation to see Ronnie’s incredibly expanded gardens at the Malaspina farm.
We then joined her and Peter at the Lund pub for dinner, along with Juliet and Sherry whom we’d been trying to arrange to see earlier.
Tai showed up with Wilder and Renwyn for a last goodbye. As we were about to leave the pub, a striking man came over to say hello to Peter, who introduced him as Evan Adams, a physician colleague now living in Lund.
Our brief chat landed on his memory of hitting someone with his lunch bucket on a bus as a little kid. Jan asked if that was the bus of the Lund Farm Day Camp in 1974. Yes! he said.
Two young men came over and he said they had to go.
After they left, Peter told us that they are two of six sons he’s adopted, that he’s gay, that he’s Chief Medical Officer of the First Nations Health Authority and a movie star, among others of Smoke Signals, a quirky and moving 1990 film that I still remember seeing.
August 24
Sitting in the tiny Powell River airport during a three hour delay the next morning I found pictures in my computer documenting the bus story and of Evan as a 7-year old in the water at Sliammon Lake.
I emailed them to him and he immediately replied:
Yes, that is me. And the jumper is my sister, Maureen. We are 7 & 8 years old. Amazing!
It was really great to meet you & Jan again – 52 years later! I really did find the camp life-changing, seeing (frankly & plainly) white people care about us and our outcomes and treating us like regular kids – it made a difference. And, of course, it was really fun and reinforced our First Nations viewpoints on nature, balance, spirit, and being on the land.Finally, at that time, my family was still recovering from the death of my older sister, and the camp really helped us adjust. (My sister, Maureen, who is a year older than me, was also at the camp, along with Marlane, Elsie‘s daughter.)
Thank you for the lovely, joyful, progressive hippy spirit you brought!
During the Pacific Coastal return flight along snow covered mountains to the east and over the islands below, I was filled with gratitude and nostalgia–the old feelings familiar from departures and returns since 1979. Jan and I discussed the possibility of a longer stay next year.