“Mommy, what’s a butter tart?” My niece held her slender fingers to her mouth to hide as she whispered to my sister.
“Um, well. It’s a treat.” If Mara had not yet tasted a butter tart in her short life it was a good assumption that Nancy didn’t make them or know much about them. She paused for a moment to come up with a satisfactory answer. “It’s aunt Tori’s favorite.”
“They’re my favorite, too.” Mara pushed back her shoulders, swiped at the honey colored curls that fell on her forehead and spoke with all the experience of the five years behind her.
On our way to British Columbia, I had visions of watching grizzlies swat passing salmon out of the river for their dinner. The salmon runs are legendary and the stuff of National Geographic specials. I had seen enough of those documentaries to think it would be easy to just hike up and watch the salmon—maybe pluck one out of the racing waters for dinner myself.
Sometimes, I am so naïve.
We saw no salmon as we cruised from Vancouver to the island of Salt Spring. Orcas played in the bay as we ferried past. A seal bobbed his smooth head up and down to take a curious look as we kayaked passed. A bald eagle sat sentinel in a tall cedar, but no salmon.