The Alpha Male at Tweedsmuir Park Lodge is owner Peter Mattsson. Nobody calls him Peter. Probably no one has ever called him Mr. Mattsson. He’s ‘Swede’, a moniker he acquired in his rambunctious youth as a ski-hard, party-hard snow cowboy in Whistler, B.C. and other Western ski meccas. At the Lodge I found a copy of a 2002 article in a ski magazine that profiled him as “Rude. Gruff. Loud.” …but steeped in more raw, wild mountain experience and expertise than any other skier in British Columbia.Now eight years later, Swede is in his rambunctious middle age. And he’s apparently changed little. Still rude. Still gruff. Still loud. And he’s totally unconcerned about his lack of innkeeper’s warmth and genteel hospitality. With good reason. This Alpha Male has others upon whom he can rely for that. And they’re all women.
I confess. I was completely bewitched, bothered and beguiled by the Lodge’s three beautiful women staffers:
- The remarkable Carol, who bewitched me with her inexplicable combination of hyper-competence and earth-core calm. She glows. And she cooks. Extraordinary stuff. As head chef at the Lodge, she delights a handful or a roomful of guests every night with a 3-course dinner of such freshness, quality and creativity that its preparation would seem impossible to conjure in the wilds of Bella Coola by anyone not endowed with a penchant for pure magic.
- The supremely well-grounded and multi-talented Annalee, a Bella Coola local with a sparkling smile, a gift for easy hospitality, and an ever-so-slight but seriously sexy lisp. (Just like Amanda Ziller in Tom Robbins’ first novel!) Bothered me to distraction, she did. But her 60-minute Raynor-method therapeutic massage properly redirected my attention to my own travel-weary body aches. All expertly dispatched by Annalee. Bliss.
- The fair Skye – yes, named after the Scottish Isle – whose delicately reddish-blonde hair I found to be nearly as beguiling as her true green, fall-in-love-with-me-right-now eyes. At dinner, I foolishly ordered a carafe of wine, which brought her to my table just once. I should have ordered wine by the glass. Or the thimble.
It’s a marvel to me that these extreme gender types – Alpha Male, genteel female – are able to coexist and function so smoothly and effectively at Tweedsmuir. Yet they do. There’s not even a hint of tension as these gracious ladies calmly and conscientiously coddle their fortunate guests, while holding Swede suitably at bay.
Sexual politics seem far less successfully reconciled in the actual burg of Bella Coola.
I’d returned there for a final night’s stay with Henry and Margaret (see 13th Post) so that I could be close to the ferry terminal for the next day’s early morning departure. In town I enjoyed a supremely fresh and overly-generous slab of salmon at the inspirationally (!) named Bella Coola Valley Restaurant. And there -- conspicuously displayed on a wall along with mounted heads of trophy animals, a funky hero-worship poster of the Vancouver Canucks and lots of very tired print images of provincial landscapes – I found a photograph of a circular wooden barstool seat into which had been carved a string of sophomoric sentiments likening women to… fishing. The quality of the carving was nearly as crude as the sentiments. Painful evidence that the male of our species may not have evolved much since the Pleistocene era. At least in Bella Coola.
(Attention: If any Bella Cool-ites are reading this blog… please go rip that photo down, fergudnezzakes.)
After dinner, there was still plenty of late evening light for an exploratory stroll around the tiny hamlet. Two young boys on bikes, noticing the curious stranger in town, immediately pedaled over and asked, “What’s your name?” So we exchanged names. Suitably befriended, they proceeded to show me the way to their school, the Big Church, and the First Nations log house and totems. (Photo Gallery)
By 11pm I was comfortably nestled back into Henry and Margaret’s guest room #1. I left an immodestly generous stack of $10 notes on the bedside table in thanks for Margaret’s hospitality and Henry’s “Jump-in-the-truck” heroics. (see 13th Posting) And I was ready for a good night’s sleep before the 6:00am check-in time for the 12-hour ferry trip back to Vancouver Island.
The morning came. Henry called, “Jump in the truck!” As I climbed out at the ferry terminal, Henry gifted me with some native smoked salmon, some pepperoni made from a bear that he'd killed, and 3 enormous breakfast muffins from Margaret. Great stuff.
