From the End of My Street to the Edge of the World

Chilliwack Lake is nowhere near Chilliwack

And Chilliwack is nowhere near anything. It takes an hour to reach the town where I live from Vancouver, and another hour to reach the lake that shares its name.

But what a drive. The road rises steadily, following the course of the rushing Chilliwack River as it swirls and plunges over boulders and gravel banks, past cold caves, driving through endless forests on its way to the distant sea.

This is my backyard. The wild world starts at the end of my street, mountains and forests and deep cold lakes just a short drive away. It’s why I bought a kayak, to better explore the waterways of the area.

Chilliwack sounds like a silly word to English ears. But in the Halq’eméylem language of the First Nations people who live here, Tcil’Qe’uk means ‘the valley of many streams.’ This strip of flat land surrounded by mountains is where all the rain and melted snow of a British Columbia winter collect. Canada has 20 percent of the entire world’s supply of freshwater, and BC certainly has its share.

But I had never been to Chilliwack Lake. I’ve explored Cultus and Hicks and Deer, and the deep dark waters of the vast Harrison Lake have become virtually a second home to me while the pandemic keeps me in this valley. Even though I’ve lived in the area for years now, I never made the drive out to Chilliwack Lake.

Better late than never.

Soon, the road ran out

The smooth pavement abruptly ended, replaced by packed gravel that raised a cloud of orange dust to float in the sunlight lancing through the trees. Our small car wasn’t made for roads like this. Then again, it wasn’t made for hauling kayaks either, but that didn’t stop me strapping two to the roof and setting out. My wife likes to drive, so I sat back, feeling every rut and pothole in the weatherbeaten road that wound through the forest toward the lake.

Then we reached it.

Like most of the lakes around here, Chilliwack Lake was formed by grinding glaciers that carved gouges in the mountains millions of years ago. It was early enough in the year that snow still shone on the peaks surrounding the water, their brilliant crowns reflected on the flawless surface. Parking on the concrete boat launch, we got out to look over the emerald green water that faded slowly to deep blue.

We were almost alone. One of the joys of working for ourselves is that we can take advantage of sunny weekdays. A few people sat on the beach, socially distanced and mercifully quiet. There was no one out on the water.

There’s a dreamlike quality to paddling when it’s like this. The boat glides frictionless over the water, and the only sound is the lake peeling back from the bow and the slap and suck of the paddle blade moving the water. At times, in the forest, we heard the joyful rush of another icy waterfall filling the lake. At the far end, just beyond the beach, the invisible border between Canada and the United States sits, and if it wasn’t for pesky things like international law, you could paddle right from one into the other. But we had no desire to be anywhere other than where we were.

The lake is sacred

In Halq’eméylem, its name is Sxotsaqel — Sacred Lake. Supposedly the home of water babies, magical beings that can imitate the cry of a human child as an omen of death or misfortune.

You don’t need to share the animist beliefs of the indigenous people of the area to understand why the lake is sacred. It feels it. The astonishingly pure water and the surrounding mountains and the deep profound silence of the place make it feel like a cathedral. A place far away not only in kilometers but in time. A vision of a pristine and unspoiled word that existed before a word was spoken, before a single baby cried.

A silence that you can bathe in like water, that seeps through the pores of your skin and settles somewhere in your chest. A sense of crystalline peacefulness that clings to you like the pollen of paradise.

We hear what we are tuned to. Our own names leap out at us in the babbel of the crowd. New parents hear their babies crying even when they’re not, a phantom sound that rings in ears that have changed to pick it up over everything else. The scientific explanation does nothing to diminish the sacred feel of the lake. Water babies or not, Chilliwack Lake feels otherworldly.

“Look! Free booze!”

Slowly, we paddled along the densely forested shoreline of the lake. Turning back toward our starting point after a couple of hours, I noticed something floating in the water.

I try to make a habit of picking up garbage that I find. Who else but us will keep these places sacred?

But as I steered my kayak toward the bright silver flash of an aluminium can bobbing in the dark water, my hands closed around unexpected weight. The can was still sealed. A premixed Moscow mule cocktail, chilled to icy coolness by the fresh water.

My wife grinned as I held up the copper-colored can triumphantly. Once in a while, doing the right thing gets rewarded.

Tired, we made our way back to the beach. The water glowed green in the shallows, lit by the hot sun and reflecting the bright life of the trees. Carrying our boats to shore, we went back to the car to pick up camping chairs and set them up overlooking the lake. I drank to the water and its kindly spirits, real or not. And we basked in that deep and radiant silence until the sun cooled and the shadows of the trees stretched out across the motionless water.

Who knew heaven was only an hour’s drive down the road?