In the airport, a beautiful man eyeballs me. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, with a weathered, tanned visage. The sharp planes of his face are softened by dimples. Everything about him suggests he has mischievious eyes. I’d know if I made eye contact.

If this was a Harlequin moment, I’d be the shy city girl entranced by his rugged, rural masculinity. But this is not a scene from a romance novel and no one would ever accuse me of being shy. Still, I’m avoiding his eyes.

He’s wearing what appears to be an Ed Hardy t-shirt, tucked in (!) to jeans belted high and tight by an oversized, ornate, mixed-metal belt buckle screaming “rodeo champ”. The two-tone silver and gold echoes the metallic tattoo print on his honey-coloured shirt which in turn matches his caramel-coloured cowboy boots.

I sift through the sands of memory for the last time I saw a man in cowboy boots with surprise realize it’s an annual occurence. Each year there’s a rodeo weekend near my home and although the event has a history of real wrangling, now it’s mainly an excuse for suburban hoochies to publicly parade in daisy dukes, bikinis, and pristine pink cowboy boots. There are real cowboy and cowgirls, though, with boots made for more than walking the walk of shame. I think. Maybe. I don’t know for certain because I rarely go to rodeo weekend.

And so although this man is handsome, all I can think is, I can’t even talk to you with that belt and those boots.

***

I’m not wearing boots. I’m wearing a wide-skirted, small-waisted dress and four-inch espradilles with ribbons that tie around my ankles. I’m looking pretty because I’m on my way to see my sweetie, who’s making a drastic and dramatic career change. He’s in Smithers, a northern mountain town, training his scissor hands – for twenty years, he’s been a hair stylist – to drill. I’m writing travel pieces. So I’m travelling. To Smithers, BC. To see him.

He called me the moment he arrived. From the tarmac. “It’s incredible,” he tells me. “The mountain is right here and it’s amazing. Beautiful. You won’t believe it,” he says. “There’s snow on the mountain but the sun is shining.”

It’s April and officially spring. “The snow is gone,” my man later promises. He’s been walking around in a t-shirt and hoodie and so yes, dresses and heels will be just fine. And so I’m on my way, to see my man and this mountain and this mountain town.

***

In the surprisingly long security line, a warm-eyed Aboriginal man turns around. He smiles at me. “Can you believe this?” he asks. He’s wearing cowboy boots. My western wear count has gone from an annual to a bi-hourly event. He’s going to Smithers. So am I. “Maybe we’ll be sitting together,” he says with another smile.

We do not sit together. Instead, I sit beside Sharon. Her hair is the exact shade that my hairstylist aka my city-man-turned-mountain-man was planning to colour mine: a very dark red-brown with a platinum peekaboo streak. Sharon’s 38. I’m 38. She has two girls. So do I. She’s passionate about art, music, culture. And Smithers. A long-time resident, she knows it and its people well. She even knows that the pilot and co-pilot of our plane are father and son. Although Air Canada, a larger commercial airline, also flies into Smithers, Sharon tells me she prefers Hawkair because its pilots are experienced locals who’ve been flying into this airport – which has mountains between 5400-9500 feet high within five nautical miles of the landing strip, making for exceptionally tricky night landings – for years and years.

Sharon landed in Smithers more than a decade ago. After university, she followed her then-fiance/future-husband here and although they’ve since separated, she wouldn’t be anywhere else. She plays bass, and there’s a vibrant music scene, and kids can safely walk to school. Her kids can safely walk anywhere. And as we’re about to (safely) walk off the plane, she tells me she’d be happy to drive me to my hotel. No taxi necessary.

I get off the plane and am stunned. Contrary to my man’s mythologizing, there’s no mountain – or, if Hudson Bay Mountain does exist, it’s cloaked in the thick cloud and snowstorm choking the tarmac and the valley. So although I’m not sure there’s a mountain, I am sure there’s no coat. That dude – my dude – with the misleading weather report will have to surrender his jacket.

And I might have to buy boots.

***

In the meantime, I wear running shoes, let down the hem of my artfully-cuffed capris, and filch a pair of socks from my man. This will have to do as spring-masquerading-as-winter wear.

I walk to the coffee shop and on the way stop at a work-wear shop. I’m shocked. The rubber boots are cute. Not cute enough to buy, and not as cute as my lonely and staggeringly high shoes cooling their heels at the hotel, but cute.

Later, I’m at the hospital. I’d like to blame the sneakers although of course the problem lies more with the operator than the equipment. For four hours I sit in a waiting room the size of a hot tub. I can’t bear to look at the faces of people around me. We’re too close to each other. We’re all in too much pain. Eye contact seems an unwelcome intimacy when we’re all craving anonymity…and to be elsewhere. I don’t imagine anyone in any community aims to spend a day or a night here.

A woman sits beside me and her two kids climb onto her lap. They’re wearing fleece pants and candy-coloured gumboots. She’s wearing inky jeans over pointed boots that are almost but not quite cowboy boots. Maybe they’re Frye boots. They’re beat up all to hell. They look heavenly.

The doctor who treats me is wearing battered boots, too. She’s got a tight grey sweater, dark jeans and grey boots. Round-toes. Scratched, scuffed, fabulous.

A nurse asks me why I’m here, and grins approvingly when I tell her I’m writing about Smithers. She’s been here for two months and she loves it. There’s so much to do that she hasn’t had a chance to do most of it.

As I listen to her extol the virtues of her new-found home, I realize that Smithers isn’t a town, it’s a religion. Its people (even those new to the faith) are evangelists.

What Sharon lovingly preached on the plane is echoed by my newfound medical team and soon to be passionately repeated by almost everyone I talk to – both those born into it and converts, alike.

***

Caroline Marko, I’m told by more than one person, is a “colourful character”. She’s tiny in stature but huge in presence. Her wild red curls and logging-camp language charmingly cluttered with curse words contrasts with her vaguely European accent and the classic couture training she received from her family in Sweden. She comes from a line of tailors, she explains, and that’s what brought about her boutique, Salt. (“Why Salt?” I ask. “Because I’m not sweet,” she replies.) Obviously yet inexplicably, Salt is stocked with gourmet sea salts, a custom bicycle…and a collection of unique, finely-crafted clothes and jewelry that seems more curated than sourced.

But business is not what brought her to Smithers. That she blames on alcohol, Mexico, a man, and her mother’s ultimatum.

And an “appalling” outfit: a boob tube, platform sneakers – “it was the back in Spice Girls days” – and way-too-big men’s shorts she bought at a street market while backpacking around Cabo San Lucas. “I was wearing jeans,” she explains, “but it was way too hot and I was way too drunk. And so I bought and wore those shorts.”

It was in this still cringe-inducing ensemble that she met “a really hot Canadian guy”. After spending only a day together, they said goodbye and returned to their repective countries…only to say hello over and over again with more than $800 worth of long distance calls. When her mother got the bill, she told Caroline: “You have two options. You’re either going to pay this bill or you’re going to use that money to go to Canada and see this man.”

Fourteen years, two kids and one business later, Caroline reports that her husband “still owes my mother a thank-you gift.” It’s a delightful, wild ride of a love-story, but that’s fitting: Caroline is a roller-coaster, personified. She gives me this interview while simultaneously making time for a few words with fellow local business owner (C.O.B.’s Dave Percy, the builder of the bike in Salt’s window and who, along with Caroline, has me thinking that Smither’s stock of business-owners is disproportionately young, fit, and fine), charming clients, and having a stern yet sweet talk with an employee who inadvertently allowed a heavily made-up friend to stain a delicate silk dress.

And regretting her current outfit: a fitted, white cotton t-shirt, even more fitted olive green cargo pants, and glossy, knee-high, equestrian-style boots I instantly covet. “I look a mess,” she says. “You don’t look a mess,” I answer. “You look magnificent.”

She is magnificent. And so is the next dynamic young entrepreneur I meet.

***

Along with his wife, Joscelyn (“in all honesty, she runs the store”, he confesses) Jason Krauskopf owns Rayz Boardshop, a seasonal boat rental/waterskiing company, and a recently-completed rental guest house called Stonesthrow. When I meet up with him there, he’s sitting on the leather sofa in his sock-feet.

Jason grew up in Smithers and went to university in Prince George. While he was there, he decided he wanted to create a particular lifestyle – built around outdoor pursuits like snowboarding, skateboarding, water-skiing, and fishing – and knew Smithers was the place to do it. But in order to do that, he also knew he’d need to invent an occupation. And so, before he’d even graduated, he was negotiating to fund and buy Rayz Boardshop. His plan was to design a business around the life he wanted to live in small-town Smithers.

And that, he explains, “is not uncommon”. Jason knows several people his age with similar stories. While most small towns in northern BC are battling “brain drain” with more young people exiting than entering, Smithers is gaining newcomers and retaining its younger generation. It’s such a significant and counterintuitive phenomena that the Smithers District Chamber of Commerce and the Town of Smithers Economic Development Committee chronicled it with a book project called “The Kids Came Back”.

So Smithers retained Jason Krauskopf and gained his friend Mark Gillis. Jason and Mark met at university in Prince George, and after graduating and travelling the world, Mark moved to Smithers with his wife. He worked in forestry while starting a hobby brewery that rapidly became more than a hobby. Plan B Brewing now a full-time business. And, Jason testifies, it’s really good beer. Jason shows me an empty bottle – the label art is terrific – and tells me that I really should talk to Mark. And then he drives me right to him.

***

The Plan B brewery isn’t open for business today, but a peek through the artfully crafted window bars reveals there’s business being done, and so, emboldened by Jason’s prodding and presence, I walk right in. There’s a polished concrete bar, leather sofa, fabulous art, fridges full of beer, an open “kitchen” consisting of stainless steel barrels and gleaming tubes and taps, and Mark Gillis in the middle of it all in an apron and rubber rain boots. It’s Tuesday. He’s brewing.

Like Jason, Mark grew up locally (he’s originally from Vanderhoof). Like Sharon, Caroline and Jason, Mark tells me he made a conscious choice to live in Smithers and now that he does, he can’t imagine raising his children anywhere else. And so he’s an enthusiastic champion of local talent, from the guy who cast his concrete counters, to the welder who created the hop-vine window bars I spied through, to Facundo Gastiazoro, the artist whose paintings hang in the entrance of the brewery and illustrations adorn the labels of all the brewery’s beers, which in turn are named for local legends. It’s a passion-fueled enterprise in a passion-fueled economy: like Mark, people here are passionate about their town and its history…and so, in order to stay, they build businesses around their particular passions. Entrepreneurial excellence is everywhere.

And so is generosity. When I try to call a taxi, Mark insists on driving me back to my hotel. This just keeps happening. Everyone I meet gives me gifts, from lifts to town to bags of gourmet salt, introductions, and even an offer of a free night’s accomodation. I think about this, and about the parallels in all the stories I’ve heard – outdoor living, love, art, family, free-range kids, entrepreneurship, community – and realize that the personal histories shared by Sharon, Caroline, Jason and Mark are sideways lessons in the land, culture and economy of Smithers.

It’s delicious and I want more, so I arrange to spend some time with David deWit.

***

David deWit is the Natural Resources Department Manager for the Office of the Wet’suwet’en and when we meet, I’m so smitten by his soft-spoken, soulful “Wet’suwet’en 101″ that I don’t even check out his soles. David walks me through the clan structure, culture and politics of his peoples from long, long, time ago to today, and his thoughtful tutelage triggers a come-to-Jesus moment in me. There’s a shift in my thinking. As a recovering political science junkie (seven long years of undergrad and graduate study), I realize that my understanding of contemporary Aboriginal peoples and politics has been exclusively, inappropriately Machiavellian: all about machination, treaties, positioning, protest, reparations and reaction. My “knowledge” is a headline, news-report reel. This band protests X development. That tribe blocks Y pipeline. But David shows me that what The Office of the Wet’suwet’en and the Wet’suwet’en people want is not to have to react to announcements of development in their traditional territories. Instead, they’ve set up proactive processes to work with corporations and governments to jointly plan economically and socially sustainable development.

As an example of a project that went awry when it could have gone right, I ask him about a past plan for coalbed methane drilling in the headwaters of the Skeena, Nass and Stikine Rivers. The “sacred headwaters” is the birthplace for all three regional rivers feeding the lakes, fish stocks, sport-fishing industry…and families of many community members. A methane leak or spill in the headwaters could pollute all three rivers downstream, compromising or even destroying ecosystems, economies, livelihoods and food security throughout the region. And so the plan was met with protest – and not only from members of the Aboriginal community.

But. It wasn’t mining, drilling or development that the Wet’suwet’en and other community groups opposed. It was the place. The headwaters. You simply shouldn’t risk drilling there. And so, David explains, if companies come to them with proposals rather than announcements, the Wet’suwet’en can offer practical advice (like: drill here, not there, because it’s less of a socio-environmental risk, which means community groups probably won’t freak and block your project) based on their long, wide and deep knowledge of the region’s social and eco-systems. The Wet’suwet’en, David explains, welcome opportunities to contribute their local, historical expertise to developing sustainable, profitable ventures more likely to be embraced than protested by the region’s communities.

In a traditional business sense, they’re preaching the win-win-win. In an even more traditional sense, the Wet’suwet’en are practicing Yintah. It’s a word, David explains, describing both the Wet’suwet’en territory and philosophy. Yintah is an all-encompassing concept describing the interconnectedness of everything in a territory - from the soil, air, trees, water, and weather to the animals and people – and as a philosophy and practice Yintah acknowledges the relationships, responsibilities and interdependencies existing between all of these elements. And by “people”, David continues, Yintah includes all the people inhabiting Wet’suwet’en lands, Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal alike. If you are here, from dust motes to deer mice to deer to people of all ethnicities, you are to be considered in every action and happening in this territory. You are part of Yintah.

And in some form, that’s exactly what everyone I’ve met has been trying to articulate to me. Some tell me they came (or stay) for the outdoors, arts-and-culture, business opportunities, or people…but what they all return to – in life and conversation – is the fact that Smithers is all of these things. The land, the animals, the people, the economies, the cultures are all inextricably linked with each other. It’s Yintah. It’s interconnection. It’s communion.

It’s a community. They are a community. Their boots are made for walking and working together. They’re keeping the faith.

***

10am. Sunday. Church bells. For real. Where have I ever heard church bells before? Oh yes, first in Venice and then in Rome. And now in Smithers.

Although they ring through the whole town, I suspect these bells toll for me. It’s only a few days in and already I’m convinced. I’m converting. While I’m not (yet!) moved to move, I am ready for a pair of beautiful, battered-to-Smithereens boots. Still, given my penchant for fifties silhouettes and pencil skirts, I’m not sure what I’ll wear them with.

Maybe just a smile.

And, possibly, another return ticket.

——————–

How to get there: Hawkair specializes in flights to major northern towns in BC (Terrace, Kitimat, Smithers, Houston and Prince Rupert); has three-times daily service to Smithers from Vancouver’s main terminal; great prices (economy fares start at $235 CDN each way); tasty snacks sourced from local bakeries and caterers; and incredibly friendly service.

Where to stay: If you’re looking for out-of-town charm, Stonesthrow Guesthouse or Logpile Lodge serve up privacy in the midst of very pretty natural settings. The Logpile is a tech-free retreat – no phones, TVs or wireless – while Stonesthrow comes equipped with a large flat screen, stereo, DVD player, printer, and internet connection.

In town, there are lots of economical options, from The Florence and The Fireweed at the lower end of the price range to The Sandman and The Sunshine Inn at higher (but still exceptionally affordable) price points. In most of the hotels and motels, décors are pretty standard – but so are the prices, which range from $59 to $199 CDN per night plus taxes.

Where to snack: Chatters Pizzaria & Bistro is habit-forming: though I’m not usually a fan of potatoes of any kind or in any form, I visited daily for a dose of seasoned yam fries with chipotle. Even more addictive is Schimmel’s Fine Pastries, an Austrian bakery with great coffee, good ambience and very fine pastries indeed.

Where to dine: If you ask around, two restaurant recommendations will come up over and over again: The Trackside Cantina and The Logpile Lodge Dining Room. The Trackside Cantina is a casual southwestern/Mexican kitchen with hearty servings and service while The Logpile is eclectic and elegant with a prix fixe menu that changes daily (but call ahead: it’s only open a few nights a week).

What to drink: Plan B Beer. It’s available at Luftikus, Chatters, The Riverhouse Restaurant and Lounge at The Aspen Inn and direct from the brewery on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays.

Who to Talk To: Everyone – but especially Gladys Atrill at Tourism Smithers, who introduced me to nearly all the people and places on this list.

What to wear: Boots.