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You will hear it often, about some places, “I came for a visit and never left.”

You will hear it often, about some places, "I came for a visit and never left." In my case, I firstvisited Haida Gwaii eight years ago, and it wasn't until five years later that I finally made my move. I'm often asked about the community here. I can only speak as a newcomer, my experience filtered through my biases and influenced by the stories that I've heard. Individual mileage may vary.

"Tow Town" isn't so much a town as a geographic region that blesses a certain way of life. you could glide right past it on your way to the end of the road, beyond the eponymous Tow Hill. Distracted by the otherworldly scenery, you might keep driving till your wheels hit seawater as the road fades into sand. Beyond that, north Beach curves away like a long, pale scythe, jutting out towards Alaska.

Somewhere between the municipal boundary sign of Masset and beyond where the pavement turns to gravel. Along a stretch of road that parallels the coastline, with a few branches that end in cul-de-sacs. That's where the denizens of the Tow Hill Community (T.H.C.) reside. A loose collection of folks – they number about 150 – but a tight community nonetheless.

Thirty years ago there was little at the end of the road beyond the remnants of the first hardy homesteaders and a clam cannery, a now defunct resort, and the ghost of an old Haida village. Though

North Beach has always been an important food gathering area for the Haida. Then came – for lack of a better word – hippies who lived in shacks off the beach. These inhabitants, who have been called everything from Tow Towners and Tow Hillbillies to Dreadnecks and Earth Muffins, have stayed long enough to raise a second generation.

Some might see them as a new strain of bohemian, though they would likely object to being called one. You're as likely to seeone with a chainsaw in their hands as a surfboard or a ukulele. A dream catcher on the rearview mirror of their truck perhaps. To some townies though, they're still just plain hippies.

It is not just out toward the end of the road, but also near the end of the power line. Many here live, or have lived, off-grid by choice. Even for some of those who settled within a stone's throw of the line, they chose not to be hooked up. Being connected isn't just about bills, and inspectors, and the proliferation of everything that plugs in. Living off-grid is a state of being. It means splitting wood for warmth, hauling your water. And once you're taking care of those basics of existence, it's only natural to extend your thoughts to collecting your own food.

Here the forests are laden with deer, mushrooms, berries and other choice edibles, the ocean full of fish, shellfish and crabs. From both, a vast supply of wood, to fuel stoves or be milled into building materials. Water quite literally falls from the sky to be collected into barrels. This existence makes you conscious of everything that you use and appreciate what you've got. It means helping out and needing the help of others. It fosters being connected to the land and people.

Residents of the Tow Hill Community live in everything from shacks built of plastic sheeting stretched over wooden frames to handcrafted homes filled with elegant custom cabinetry and shiny modern appliances. But many started at some point with raw land and a hammer. The simple life is not easy. That's what makes it rewarding. The allure of modern convenience is irresistibly strong. But here at least, you're conscious of the difference between your wants and needs.

The people here aren't easily pigeonholed, though I seem to be trying, and cannot be painted as an archetype. Local residents have included a famous poet and a once prolific bank robber, a German opera singer and a Kiwi lawyer, a pyromaniac and a Toyota mechanic, a librarian and a goat farmer, carpenters and beachcombers, circus jugglers and kayak guides, mushroom pickers and tree planters, former activists and anarchists, retired cops and soldiers. Many are a combination of the above.

They're more defined by how they choose to live rather than how they make their living. The empty surf breaks were a major draw for some residents and are still a significant part of the lifestyle today. There may be as many reasons as there are people for landing here, but there are common bonds that bind them.

There are plenty of other little communities out there harbouring refugees from city life. The people of Tow Hill live on an island, with all that island living entails. The added remoteness and isolation draws people together, removes anonymity. Everyone who comes must come by plane or boat. It takes effort to get here. No one just happens to be passing through.

And that's perhaps one of the reasons that the Tow Hill Community is so inclusive and welcoming. If you've gone to the trouble to get here and engage with the locals (which could be as simple as ordering a coffee at The Moon Over Naikoon Bakery and smiling at the person next to you), then they will generally reciprocate your interest.

These are places where every person is an individual instead of a particle in an anonymous wash of humanity. Places where work is done with one's hands and actions have real consequences. Where a person with no skills could show up, throw down some tools, and without adherence to much more than physics and logic, make a home and build a life.

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