July brings a close to our dalliance with the southern end of Vancouver Island. That means it is time to migrate north, like an optimistic Canada Goose. It has long been a goal to visit the northern edge of the island, to travel as far as our trusty Subaru can carry us in comfort.

The first week of July we rolled into Port McNeil, the next to last stop on Highway 19. Continue up the road for another 20 km and you will reach the even smaller Port Hardy, the last bead on the chain, the town where the Alaska ferries depart for their voyage through the inland passage.

Port McNeill may not be the northern boundary of the island, but you can certainly see it from here.

In historical terms, the ability to drive to Port McNeill is a recent innovation. The crews that paved Highway 19 didn’t reach Port McNeill until the late-1970s. Travelers wishing to visit the town before that were required to catch a ferry from Sayward, a tiny village fifty-five miles southeast, down the Johnstone Strait.

The dream of an overland route dated back to 1897. That was the first year that the Canadian government promised a road to the northern communities. It wasn’t the last time. For nearly 80 years, politicians campaigned on the issue of getting the road built. Unfortunately, as soon as the elected officials reached Victoria—British Columbia’s capital—their pledges and solemn affirmations of support vanished.

Decades passed; the ferry continued to carry travelers north; the road remained as illusory as the Vancouver Island Sasquatch.

In 1976, the people of Port Hardy organized the “Carrot Campaign.” Recognizing that the politicians had done nothing more than promise four generations of residents a “carrot” to keep them happy, activists began to ship cans of carrot juice and other carrot-themed items to the Parliament buildings in Victoria.

The politicians finally discerned the wishes of their unhappy constituents, and the highway was finished in 1979.

The people erected a symbolic wooden carrot in the city park to remind them of the value of effective political pressure.

But back to our story:

Port McNeill is a town of 2,300 residents. It is small, it is quiet, and, if our experience is an accurate gauge, it rains every day.

Even in July.

In short, the place is practically perfect in every way.

During the height of the tourist season (July) you could probably lay down on Highway 19 and not expect to be bothered more than every couple of minutes. The community’s booster site claims that Port McNeill is a popular destination for visitors, but in the two weeks we spent there, I didn’t see a US license plate (and very few of the Canadian variety, for that matter).

The port clings to a small level spot between the dark waters of the sound, and the verdant mountains rising from the shoreline to bury their tops in the ever-present cloud deck. We rented a tiny, but perfectly located, single room cabin looking across the channel to Malcolm Island. Fishing boats shoulder their way up and down the strait; occasionally we see a sailboat heading north for Alaska.

Of course this bucolic setting is not without controversy. Great issues divide the local population. There is, for example, the question of the identity of the World’s Largest Burl. Not Burl Ives or baseball pitcher Burl Carraway, although a head-to-head face-off between the two might prove a fascinating match-up—assuming we could figure out what the competition might be.

And assuming Burl Ives was still alive.

No, I am referring to the competition for the world’s largest tree burl.

A burl, for those readers who don’t keep up on international competition, is an abnormal growth in a tree trunk. Something stimulates the tree to begin producing excess tissue that can grow into a large twisted sphere.

Under normal conditions, a burl might rival the knob at the end of an Irish shillelagh. Sometimes, however, these burls just continue to grow until they reach awe-inspiring dimensions. In 1976, surveyors for the MacMillan Bloedel lumber company stumbled across a massive specimen growing at the base of a spruce tree. Naturally, they cut down the tree and moved the burl to a place of honor: a gravel road that leads into a Western Forest Products Mill, midway between Port Hardy and Port McNeill.

This burl, the first contender for the title of World’s Largest Burl, has a circumference of 45 feet and weighs more than two tons.

It certainly seems like a champion burl.

But wait—to check rotting and vandalism, the owners of the burl encased it in fiberglass. That raises an obvious objection: is there a real burl inside the case? And even if we extend the benefit of the doubt, shouldn’t the burl have to face the elements like the other contenders? Does the fiberglass sheath confer an unfair advantage?

I think you would certainly need to place a footnote or a check mark on this burl in the official record. It is not clear to me that it holds a clear title to the world championship.

Moreover, it has competition. Down on the Port McNeill waterfront, near the town museum, we found a second contender for the title “World’s Largest Burl.”

The Port McNeill Burl, also known as the Ronning Burl, was discovered in 2005. It is 44.9 feet in circumference and weighs, according to the sign, “20+ tons.”

Both burls claim to be the world’s largest. There’s not much to choose from. The Guinness Book of World Records awards the title to Port McNeill’s burl, although this record also requires an explanatory footnote. The Guinness Book notes that this is the largest “surviving” burl. A colossal burl was produced by a California Sequoia. Discovered in 1977, this monster was 118 feet in circumference and weighed 525 tons.

Unfortunately, as is often the case with redwood burls, the greatest burl of our age was sliced and diced. It survives only in photographs.

That means that the record for the largest (existing) burl still comes down to the two specimens here at the far northern end of Vancouver Island. Both claim the title, and their stated measurements don’t help very much.

It was all too much for me; better men than I have attempted to resolve this dispute. Nevertheless, the controversy continues.

On one evening of our stay, our landlord asked, “Do you like prawns?”

Do I like prawns? Do bees have knees?

“Wait here a minute.” In less time than projected, he returned with a large freezer bag, filled with frozen prawns. “We caught these two months ago in Knights Inlet,” he said. “Let them thaw out, then drop them into a pot of boiling water for ninety seconds.”

It was good advice. I did both. The large pink prawns—as long and thick as my thumb—took their last swim, and as soon as they began to float, I dropped them into a colander to cool.

I carried my bowl out onto the deck, and as the water chuckled on the rounded stones in front of me, began to feast on this bounty from the sea. As I chewed through a mountain of prawns, one slightly sweet crustacean at a time, I did some rudimentary math. A prawn platter at a seafood restaurant might cost as much as $25 and probably offer no more than six prawns. I must have eaten thirty prawns before my bowl was empty—well over a hundred dollars at the market rate.

I could see myself living up here, with perhaps a small sailboat to cross the strait and net prawns when they were in season.

It is the last, good country.

If you are enjoying this series, why not subscribe to Richard's monthly newsletter, What's New in Old News? The Peripatetic Historian is on the road, roaming the world and compiling fresh adventures. Don't miss out. Click here to join the legions of above-average readers who have already subscribed.