All of our gear had been crammed into a 12x15 cabin that held two exhausted cyclists and the world's smallest bathroom. We were in Iskut, British Columbia.  Not far out of the campground we came upon a rickety assemblage of ramshackle buildings on a knoll off to our right.  

Anyone here? we yelled, trying every door of the main building.  Silence.  Our final attempt was an understated white plywood door that opened into a kitchen with a few tables scattered about.  A few early morning types were shuffling around, coffee splashing with every step.  

Coffee? I grunted as the server came to us.  Now both eyes open and beginning to thaw from the outside chill, we got engaged with the folks clustered around the tables.  Steve was from Australia.  Marlene and Roger were from Hazelton, BC, and the grandkid from Alaska.  "Where you from, eh?"  Oh, I'm from Montana, and this here's Menno--he's from The Netherlands.  (Don't say, Holland, I whispered, Holland is just a province.)  So we told our story for the one-hundreth and thirty-fifth time to our breakfast friends.  

"Where you headed to, eh?"  Again, the usual litany.  Menno would be going right at the terminus to Prince Rupert and I would be going wrong, as Menno liked to put it, to Prince George.  Addressing me, Marlene announced, "Well, you'll be coming right by our fish shop, and when you come, we're going to treat you to one of our haddock lunches."  Roger, the chief cook, said nothing, just smiled and knodded approvingly.  We agreed on Friday, noon.

Unfortunately, I didn't make it into New Hazelton until Saturday.  Ergo, no haddock.  No friends to greet.  Sunday came, and I'm was at the farmer's market end of town.  "That'll be $4.00," the guy says as I pay and stuff my wild dried mushrooms into my bike saddlebag  Suddenly, this farmer guy jumps up, pulls off his overalls, and steps out with black pants ready to go to church. Can I go with you? Startled that any stranger would want to go with him to his Pentecostal church, we jumped in his car and enjoyed church--the rich, dark roast kind of worship that moves you deep in the soul.

After worship, Dean brought me back to the farmer's market where I'd left my bike with Flo, Dean's mushroom-selling wife. Pedaling out of the market I spied it!  Yes!  There was the haddock people selling fried fish as if it were ice cream. "Hey, Thomas, we been waiting for you.  We've got a haddock lunch for you, remember?"  I explained my delay in getting to their town at the right time.  Then told them about going to a "Pentecostal" church that morning.  "Why that's the church we go to," Roger crowed.  "Ya meet Pastor Jerry? Isn't he something else?"

So there you have it.  Go to church and let God bring the haddock to you.      

[First picture:  Marlene and Roger; Second picture: Pentecostal Dean]