Not only have I been able to experience Porcher Island in good weather this year (= without rain and with blue skies and sunshine time and again), no, there are numerous moments here on the very first day that I never want to forget: In the morning, I enjoy the familiar beach at particularly low tide (we have just had a full moon and the tidal range is around 6 m) with a hot pot of tea and incomparable peace and quiet. I am watched by two bald eagles circling majestically above me. After a late breakfast together, the four of us set out on our first exploratory tour through “our” stretch wilderness the Canadian coast. Right on the beach, we’re amazed by hundreds of seabirds and the treasures we find: moon snails, eagle feathers, lots of large clams, gigantic dead turban snails, and bizarre pieces of driftwood—but mixed in among them are plastic bottles washed ashore time and again, and then a large green glass ball—an old Japanese fishing net buoy! Then one of the ravens—which never fail to amaze us on the island with their flying skills and strange calls—lets us get as close as about 4 m, so Sami can take some great photos. I’m delighted to be reunited with my beloved “cotton grass bog” and some very striking, ancient giant trees. Thanks to them, I can actually find all the important areas again even without GPS. In the process, however, I occasionally lose the path to the “Butterfly Hill”—which had been well-trodden and relatively dry last year (this is where the moth counts took place last year). Unfortunately, this results in Hannes suddenly being about 80 cm shorter: he’s stuck up to his hips in one of the moss-covered, hidden water holes. Up on the moor, we’re simply overwhelmed by its rugged beauty. We marvel at the many small white gentians (Gentiana douglasiana) and the sticky rush lilies (Tofieldia glutinosa), which are blooming in abundance this year. Fred is particularly delighted by the green hellebore (Veratrum viride), which is already in bloom and is currently being pollinated by a few small ground beetles. And my heart swells when I see four cranes flying over the moor. All around us, the moss cushions shimmer in many shades of green, brown, and orange, speckled with dark red patches and interspersed with small and larger pools of water. In between, we find cloudberries (Rubus chamaemorus) and black crowberries (Empetrum nigrum), which I enjoy in abundance. (Thanks, Fred, for all the botanical explanations!)—And the midges buzzing around give me plenty of bites: a later count will reveal 93 on the “visible spots.” Back on the beach, we witness a roughly five-hour spectacle of colors in the sky that puts any TV show to shame! Cloud formations and the slowly setting sun transform the sea and the sky into shimmering expanses of pink, yellow, and bright blue. Strange shapes emerge on the horizon: mirages make the Haida Gwais appear in unusual formations. Behind us, a cheeky baby squirrel is investigating our compost pit (“Bear Trap”). It lets us get right up close and eventually climbs up my pants—over Hannes, who’s lying on the ground taking pictures—and onto my shoulder. For minutes on end, it tumbles around on me, nibbles on my finger, tries to catch a few strands of hair blowing in the wind, and even lets me pet it! We enjoy the evening’s natural spectacle in the sky to the fullest while eating our dinner: Fred eats a “meat-like” can of “ham” that had been left over from last summer on the island. Hannes and Sami perfect their stick bread by rolling bacon and cheese into the dough, then brushing the whole thing with maple butter toward the end and letting it caramelize. Finally, our “TV lineup” is rounded out by a group of orcas gliding slowly through the colorfully shimmering evening sea, repeatedly showing us their dorsal fins and, on a few occasions, even their tails. What a day!