Cormorant Island and its solitary town, Alert Bay, are a short ferry ride southeast of Port McNeil. The island is the home of the 'Namgis, one of Canada’s First Nations people. It is a small, raven-infested, rain-washed island, a place that feels removed from the rest of the world.

In short, it is practically perfect in every way.

The ferry proved the first marvel of the day. British Columbia has begun investing in electric ferries, and the Island K'ulut'a which makes the run between Port McNeill, Alert Bay, and Sointula Island, is one of the first models to enter service.

Although electric motors drive the ship through the water, the ferry is actually a hybrid—it has a diesel generator aboard to top up the batteries when they lose their charge. I am told that Port McNeill’s infrastructure is inadequate to bring the batteries up to a full charge overnight, which was the original plan.

Consequently, the Island K'ulut'a works in the same manner as a hybrid automobile, the Toyota Prius of ferries.

The ship looks as if it was designed by Tesla, complete with shiny white sides bent into a futuristic, streamlined shape. Spoilers soared above the car deck.

High tech. That’s what it's all about these days.

As we pulled away from the dock, I discovered another surprising quality: the ferry is almost perfectly quiet. No snarl of diesel engine, no heavy vibration shaking the deck plates. There is just a quiet acceleration, a smooth glide to cruising speed. You might almost believe you were on a sail boat. A barely audible hum betrays the electric technology that drives the ship ahead.

Simply astounding.

Forty minutes later, the ferry slows and eases into the dock at Alert Bay. Old canneries, collapsing into the sea, line the waterfront. My first impression is that Alert Bay is a town that the rest of the world has left behind. A few tourists join us on the walk that parallels the shoreline, but there aren’t many strangers about.

East of the ferry dock, we discover the 'Namgis Burial grounds. Weather-beaten and weather-rotted totems stand in an empty meadow. It is the final resting place of many local chieftains. A placard warns visitors to stay outside the boundary of the cemetery but photography is permitted.

When an important chief was interred here, his family would commission a totem that eventually was raised over the grave. Today some of the poles lay on the ground, felled by storms or internal rot. Many families will not restore a fallen pole, believing that the chief’s spirit has departed from the area once the totem topples.

I spent a couple of happy hours, photographing the totems, slumping canneries, and rotting boats. Alert Bay may no longer be a prosperous fishing community, but it is photogenic.

The U'mista cultural center sits at the western edge of town. We had planned to take the 3:15 ferry back to Port McNeill, but we knew that we would have to sacrifice a visit to U'mista if we clung dogmatically to the day’s operation order.

We decided to wait for the 5:55 ferry.

The word “U'mista” means “return.” In 1885 the Canadian government banned the First Nations’ potlatches. These gatherings were times of celebration, traditional dancing, and often the dispersal of an elder’s wealth. The government outlawed this expression of traditional culture, hoping to force the native groups to assimilate.

Celebration of a potlatch was illegal. In 1921 police raided a local gathering and confiscated the regalia—masks and ceremonial clothing—of the participants. The law was repealed in 1951, and the local 'Namgis people lobbied for the return of their confiscated goods. Eventually enough material was recovered to form the central display at the museum, the room where the masks are displayed.

Unfortunately, photography is forbidden in this room. In deference to the customs of our hosts, I kept my camera holstered. The exhibition hall is filled with a wide variety of cedar masks—thunderbirds, ravens, bears, orcas, and monsters that only exist in the imaginations of a forest-haunted culture. Today the 'Namgis have revived many of their traditional practices and the U'mista center stands as an anchor for that expression—documenting and preserving the past for both the local people and the visitors who are drawn here.

Loyal readers will remember that in an earlier blog I explored the controversy concerning the world’s largest burl. Alert Bay has its own dispute with the world: the claim to have the world’s tallest totem pole.

This raven-belly scraper stands 173 feet tall. Purists dispute the claim that this is the true record holder, because it is not a single tree. The pole consists of two sections—a 163 foot length and a ten foot top piece. Further controversy revolves around the fact that it is stayed; guy wires stabilize it, preventing an unfortunate topple in a strong wind.

I thought I snapped a couple of pictures of this pole, but they don’t seem to have made it into my photo library. Here is a shot of the second contender, the freestanding, 127 foot pole in Victoria’s Beacon park.

In addition to standing without external assistance, the Victoria pole was also carved out of a single tree.

I ended my day as I often do when granted the chance: wandering along the docks snapping photos of decaying fishing boats. In my book, that is the perfect coda to a successful trip.

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