I slot myself into the airplane seat, knees pressed against the seat in front of me.  Tight as usual, although not quite so tight as to be uncomfortable.  My heart goes out to travellers with legs longer than mine.  The door of the plane swings closed and I notice something hard in my back pocket.  I pull out my forgotten hotel room key.  "Shit" escapes from my mouth. 
               The woman in the row in front of me turns and asks, "What is it?"
                "I forgot to return my room key," I tell her.
                "Oh well," she says with an amused and consoling tone, "you can always mail it back."  That's true.  I could mail it back, or maybe the flight attendant will take it back for me - you know how small communities are.

Her hair is the colour of the last autumn leaves of Cottonwood trees, the hair of the woman in front of me that is.  Somehow this attractive woman escaped my attention.  I take that as a hopeful sign that the work I've been doing on my addictions has been paying off - my addiction to beautiful women being one of my stronger addictions.   I notice the familiar pull towards her, and there is the old illusion of lack appearing within.  She opens her laptop and her screensaver is a huge picture of her with her shoulders enveloped by the arm of a tall handsome man.  This is good.  I can return to myself.  Although, maybe it's her brother?  Come back Eric.  There is more love than you can imagine right here. 

The man across the aisle from me has a pelican case (a hard plastic, waterproof, virtually bombproof box of a briefcase that looks like a souped-up fisher price toy) for his laptop case.  It's just like the one I use for my laptop, except it's orange.  I'm both comforted and disappointed to find out I'm not the only quirky person using a pelican case for my laptop.  Actually, he looks like he could easily outquirk me, with his braided and beaded hair, his bandana headband, and his white socks pulled up over his dark, carhart work pants.

Behind me is a Native Haida woman with her two-year-old son.  He is transfixed by the video he is watching.  It is as if someone has asked him to act like he has been hypnotized and he is taking the role very seriously.  I feel sad remembering all the hours I had been mesmerized by tv as a child and youth.

For the first half hour we fly through thick clouds in a small, maybe 25-seat jet plane.  Maybe the plane is not powerful enough to rise above the clouds, and maybe the mountains are too close to fly below the clouds.  I wonder how long it takes pilots to become comfortable with flying into a whiteout, probably not long at all.  These smaller planes do not do well with blocking out noise, so I am wearing earplugs.  The woman in front of me is wearing earplugs too.  She has an empty seat beside her and lies down to attempt a nap.  I'm doubtful that her earplugs are that good.

Again the flight attendant comes by to offer tetra juice boxes and packaged cookies and granola bars; again I decline.  I've got an almond butter, banana, and rye-bread sandwich and a third of a cucumber for lunch.  I also have hemp hearts and raisins and more almonds.  You can take me out of the Kootenays, but you can't take the Kootenays out of me.  (Actually, my full Kootenay expression of lunch would be more like quinoa, seaweed, hemp oil, salad, steamed greens, and some fish, but I'm not that committed to food prep when I'm traveling.)

The clouds loosen up and a sea of snow-capped mountains spreads out below.  I never get tired of the beauty of mountains.

We dip and dive downwards to the Vancouver airport.  The toddler behind me is asleep on his mother's bosom, the picture of serenity.  Just before disembarking from the plane I ask the flight attendant if she would bring my room key back to the Haida Gwaii.  She agrees and in doing so reaffirms my belief in small communities.  Next, off to southern Ontario.

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