I don’t like working myself into a political rant because it always alienates someone. I need the readership.
But, here I go again. I’ll be brief. I know we are Canadian, but whether a person likes it or not, we are all North Americans. We share a common border and a common culture. I hear a lot of anti-US sentiments, usually from folks who have not travelled much south of the border, but it is said that “Empty wagons rattle the most” and I’ll leave that one where it sits.
Welcome to de swamp.Therein live some flowers.
New legislation in the US Supreme Court has once again further divided the US population over issues regarding a woman having a choice about her own body. It is mid-2022! What the hell? The term “Pro-life,” if examined, proves to be a grand oxymoron. ANYONE, who advocates people being denied basic rights about their personal well-being is mindless and entirely self-centred. I can tell you from my own experience that any person who would disallow safe, clinical pro-health and life procedures has never had to make the agonizing personal choice about terminating a pregnancy. You do not comprehend the pain of choosing to end the life of your own flesh and blood because of an overwhelming circumstance. I cannot voice loudly enough my contempt for your selfish uninformed ignorance.
A summer path.Slug crossing. They’re marvelous creatures if you take the time to look and read a bit.
It is also very much worth noting, that same political persuasion which farcically declares itself ”Pro-life” is also the mob standing firmly against gun control. “Pro-life? Bang!”
Enough said?
Blackberry flowers already. Can you believe it?The old trailer, of which I am very proud, but is now sold and the new old trailer. “Ya gotta horse in there?” I have several answers. It is proving durable and very handy for backroad wandering.Indian plums are almost ripe. They’ll get a little darker and then they will be gone, they birds get them.Gnombody home. A whimsical touch in the woods.Tiger lilies in the forest.Tiny flowers, as magic as bigger ones.RavenstoneTown flowers On the steps to the pharmacy.A brave new world.
Finally the weather has turned to summer. I’m going to go get me some.
“We don’t like to kill our unborn; we need them to grow up and fight our wars.”
― Marilyn Manson
Nothing like the peace a nice little camp fire brings. The wind break marks my preferred spot on the beach at Naka Creek CampReady for another night. The axe shows the wear of over fifty years of proud ownership. I bought it at the Squilax General Store, on the side of the Shuswap Little River BC
Sunday morning, Naka Creek. I sit inside my camper with a fresh, stout black mug of coffee beside this keyboard. It is chilly. I couldn’t be bothered to stoke up my propane furnace so instead I wear a heavy flannel shirt. Outside a low overcast races before a westerly wind and balls of drizzle wash over my campsite. I had the happy foresight to stow things away while it was still dry. Soon I’ll be on my way.
The view from my bunk.
Across Johnstone Strait a sail advances in the murk, westbound into the wind. It is bucking against the wind and tide. When the tide turns fully and the ebb begins to run in the boat’s favour, but against the wind, the seas will rise and those lumps will continue to hold him back. The boat is fast but for every six miles it tacks the position on the chart advances only a mile. I used to do that long ago, just to feel manly and salty but I eventually gave it up and motored directly toward my destination, having decided to bring a gun to the knife fight. Still I ache to be out there, cold and wet though it may be, it is in some people’s blood to suffer for the religion of the ocean. I am one. I think this boat is a participant in the R2AK motorless race to Alaska. Whoever is out there bashing along deserves full kudos for their drive and spirit. Puget Sound to Alaska is one bloody long way, I’ve done it often enough in a tug boat and even that was wearisome. Travelling the coast in my own sailboat was a dream. There was a time when the globe was being discovered by Europeans. This coast was explored entirely by wind power and muscle alone.
Then came the night again.
From where I sit I can see northward to Blinkhorn Pennisula, beyond famous Robson Bight and marking the entrance Beaver Cove. Past that are the radio towers of Cormorant Island and Alert Bay. In the far distance are the shoreline humps near Port Hardy, where the island shoreline turns sharply to the northwest. I know these waters with their labyrinth inlets and archipelagos. I ache to own a boat once again so I can vanish into secret anchorages.
The hard slog northward racing in the R2AK. The expanse and distance of our coast is overwhelming. At this point, after several days enroute, the race is not yet a quarter complete.The big easy, southbound. One salmon says to the other “Look at all the canned people!”
Advancing from behind the sailing boats and passing quickly out of sight ahead is a gleaming white motor yacht. I wonder how many barrels of fuel per hour it burns. Powering along, level, warm and dry I wonder at other perspectives on manliness. Then I nod off, my thick old fingers on the keyboard produce two pages of ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp’s. Time for a walk. I clamber up to the secret waterfalls which are as beautiful as ever. I muse that on my last visit here my beloved companion, Jack the dog, was with me and I plunge myself into momentary sorrow. He will always be with me and I try to cheer myself with recollections of all the happy moments. He loved this place. Once again I can see him rolling happily on his back in the long grass and daisies as well as the smug look on his face when he had returned from running off on his own to visit other campers and their dogs. He never made an enemy. Today I have some lovely neighbours and new friends. I am grateful.
Our secret waterfall. It is about eighty feet high.The fool’s caravan. “Got a horse in there?” “Naw, just a friend.”Nuts!The view from my camper side window. The crows were picking my old corn cobs out of the fire pit.Here’s a story. How does a very old brake shoe end up in the gravel on the beach?A burger tree. Actually it is a fungus. When baked dry then lit to smoulder, the smoke makes an excellent insect repellant.An organic nose flute. Just more fungi growing on a stick. It is amazing to see what is under the leaves.Organic camping, becoming one with the earth again.I wonder about the child who rode this. Grown now, with children weary of tales about Naka Creek.The Mack AttackI’ve been driving by this truck for nearly forty years. I reason that one day this North Campbell river landmark will be gone. A simple photographer’s tip is to take the photo while it’s there.From when men were men and their arses were sore. Note the lack of stereo, air conditioning, air bags and upholstery. You hooked one arm through the steering wheel and used both hands to shift those three levers in unison with much double-clutching. If you blew a shift you had no gears to hold you back on a hill. The brakes would soon overheat and the pedal sank to the floor.. What a feeling!Be still my redneck heart. Ain’t she a beauty? Someone has done a wonderful job on this restoration. I wannit!
The weather evolves from winter-like conditions to a flawless summer day in a few hours. I change costumes and emerge with my fluorescent shanks sticking out of old camo-patterned work shorts. How have military motifs ever become high fashion? That bemuses me, the old poster boy of the thrift stores. I’m “stylin’.”
Home again it is time for tinkering on my little circus caravan. Minor repairs, some upgrades and I’ll be back into the woods somewhere on this magic island.
Ayre my new little dog put on a very happy face for my return home.
Let’s have a moment of silence for all those North Americans who are stuck in traffic on their way to the gym to ride the stationary bicycle.h Earl Blumenauer
Last Camas. To see more come back next spring. Life rolls along no matter how we feel.
After a continuum of applications, fees, phone calls to yet another number, then another, emails and dictums ad nauseam (Computer wanted to respell that as nutcase) I am officially accepted as the BCbogtrotter.com. It’s signed, sealed and delivered. Now here I sit on the first Saturday of June, and yes it’s raining a little more. I wonder where to go from here. Funds have run out. I’ve done some repairs on the truck and am trying to set up the new old trailer for my specific needs.
Then comes the Lupins
Meanwhile there are moments of delicious hot sunshine before the next front creeps overhead. The media is determined to predict massive flooding and devastating wildfires. I just want to get out there and perhaps get flooded out for a few weeks. At home, life is a wade through suburban mediocrity. Ayre the wee beast is in my lap as I type. The din of a small town waking up is amazing, if you listen. There is the hum, roar and howl of the highway passing below the town. There are often sirens. Often we don’t even hear them they are so common. Is it an emergency or another run to Tim Hortons? A large murder of crows nearby argues over some point of bird decorum and then the neighbour fires up his lawnmower. In the distance an excavator with a chattering rock hammer gouges out the footings for another million-dollar bungalow and from that white noise emerges the clatter of a passing helicopter.
My name is Moses. This old Min Pin is nineteen years old and still has lots of light in his eyes.
Doggy now sits in the window of Jill’s office howling like a little wolf trying to will her Alpha human to come home again from her day’s work.
Ayre the backwoods marauder. She is discovering the big world out there and loving it all.
Well now! Near-silence. Several days after I began this blog I now sit on the shore of Johnstone Strait at Naka Creek Camp. If you have enough out-of-town savvy to find this place, you too deserve this little piece of heaven. I’m sipping hot mint tea at noon after a lazy morning and a late brunch. A US Coast Guard cutter powers its way southward against the last of the morning ebb. The throb of its engines is clear above the mild clatter of my tiny generator, charging up camera and laptop batteries. Soon there’ll be only the twitter of birds, the lapping of water on the shore, the gentle whisper of the wind in the trees, and the eternal hope of seeing more whales.
A Maple FlowerMountain Lilies, strangely growing by the beach. There is only one clump and it blooms briefly each spring.By all means. Spring turns into summer and thequest to survive goes on everywhere. This little folwer took root in a niche in an old piece of driftwood.
This place is an old logging camp. The forest is trying to take it back. Slowly it wins. It is essentially maintained by the users and although much loved by these folks, the jungle is creeping back to claim its own. I can see the progress since last year. Jack, my old dog, loved it here and I miss him dearly. I remember his joy exploring here and visiting with new dogs and their owners. This was a place I held hope of bringing my daughter but that is never going to happen. My wife is busy with things only she can do. I try not to feel sad or lonely but I watch couples and families and groups and yes there is an ache. Thankfully, the area is occupied with few this weekend and those folks all seem to hold a reverence for this oasis of peace and sanity. Kindred, even if we never speak.
“Honey, we’re getting down on eggs!” At a farm market Ladner.“Whazzamatta? Never seen a pig on a roller skate before?”In the belly of the whale. Yep, that’s my tiny piglet parked in with the hawgs. I’m thinking of having a vest embroidered that says “Hardley A Davidson.”Old, tired, rotten and cracked but centered and well-spoken.
At night the camp fire burns reluctantly, the wood is damp. The sea air seems to suppress any defiance to its eternal shroud of dampness. Still I nudge the fire, my feet to the warmth while holding a partial mug of rum.
There are worse ways to spend an evening.
It’s all in how you look at things.
“If you are depressed you are living in the past, if you are anxious you are living in the future, if you are at peace, you are living in the present.” —Lao Tzu
