First—the news!
Adriene has sold her business at the Crow’s Nest, or the Tlellian Mega Mall, as I like to call it. For the past 12 years, Adriene has provided us with the basic necessities, milkshakes, coffees and legendary cinnamon buns. Her last day was Sunday. Crow’s Nest will open under new management on Thursday, July 3. Best of luck to Adriene on her new adventures!
Now let’s talk personal space.
Apparently, humans generally prefer nine feet of social distance. People they know better are tolerable within three feet, and those with whom there is an intimate connection are okay at about 1.5 feet. Culture, emotional state, personal experience, gender and height are all mitigating factors, making that statistic relatively… relative.
I think in Tlell, the desired social-distance circumference is about 100 feet. This is relevant, and I’ll tell you why later on.
First, let’s talk about the weather—again.
It’s hard to tell that it’s actually summer. The only true sign is an increase in campers on the road (or in the river, according to one Facebook post) and a remarkable rise in strangers in our local restaurants and stores.
The tourists are here!
Imagine for a moment that you arrive on Haida Gwaii knowing no one and relying only on TripAdvisor recommendations. You hear that Gwaii Haanas has a UNESCO World Heritage Site but have no idea it isn’t easy to get to. You’ve never seen, let alone experienced, 25-plus-foot tides. And you can’t, for the life of you, understand why nothing is open on a Monday.
The truth is that while Haida Gwaii is embracing a tourist economy, our small population, limited transportation and infrastructure hold us back. While this can be frustrating for tourists and locals alike, perhaps it isn’t so bad.
Entire towns in Europe now exist solely for tourist consumption. I’ve experienced this first-hand in Greece. My family went to the island of Paros in 2023 and stayed in a small fishing village called Piso Livadi. We rented a villa on the hill for the whole month of May, just before the tourists typically arrive.
It was quiet, quaint and easy to get a table in one of the many restaurants. As we sat around a checkered tablecloth down in the stone-ringed bay with fishing vessels and pleasure craft dotting the horizon, I noticed something strange.
All the homes on the cliffs were dark.
No one actually lived there anymore. People lived on the island of Paros, but mostly in between the historic towns. The towns had become tourist villages. One local told us that by mid-June, everything would be packed. Some would come to work the season, mostly from Athens, but the majority would be tourists from all over the world.
Tourists experiencing a town that no longer had any permanent residents—a ghost town in everything but appearance. It felt like a place without a living soul.
One night was different, however. It was a religious holiday, and all the true Paros islanders descended on Piso Livadi, like we descend on Port Clements for Mud Bog. (Fun fact: locals on Paros refer to Piso Livadi as “Piso,” much like we call Port Clements “Port.”) Suddenly, the town was full. Beach torches were ablaze, a live band played, and locals danced their traditional dances with grace and beauty. Fireworks were lit dangerously overhead (again, a tendency we share), and all the restaurants were packed. The town was alive!
It was but a fleeting moment.
This is an example of Tll’juus (balance) that’s needed. We have to be careful here on Haida Gwaii. While welcoming visitors is one of our favourite things to do, we must never lose sight of preserving our local lifestyle.
Back to personal space—and more Tlell news:
Misty Meadows Campground now has a large arch announcing its trail from the beach. It can be seen from miles away.
I try to avoid people on the beach, claiming my 100 feet of social space. I let my dog Silver (who isn’t silver) run far from me, and I never know how people might react to an off-leash dog. The truth is she won’t come near you unless you have a super-good vibe or liver treats.
However, every so often, a tourist will signal for my attention despite my dog. Nine times out of 10, it’s because they can’t find their way back to Misty Meadows. Pleasant conversation ensues.
With the new arch and no lost tourists, I may never have an impromptu beach chat again. But I kind of hope I do. You know—balance.
