October 2023 - bc-bog-trotter.com

No I Don’t

A little bit of rain and back they came again. Torrential rains in the forecast for tomorrow.

Often before I go to bed I cruise about on my computer looking for various distractions to clear, or blur, my brain in preparation for hopefully drifting off into a sound sleep. Last night I stumbled upon a fellow named Tokasin Ghosthorse. (Isn’t that a fine Irish handle?) He is, in fact, a Lakota philosopher and teacher who was nominated once for a Nobel peace prize.

Here are some of the things he had to say:

“It’s easier to lie to children than tell them the truth.”

“We’ve educated the wisdom out of ourselves.”

“Education is about domination.”

“Humanity must shift from living “on” the earth to living with it.

Take it, or leave it, you can look him up or forget him. I was impressed with how he spoke. Clear-eyed, with an inner peace and strength, this is a man of substance. There are certainly few enough of those around. I woke up this morning as impressed with his words as when I went to sleep and I will learn more about him and his wisdom. With all the darkness swirling about us these days, both at home and around the world, it is lovely to have some fresh mindful thinking to explore.

I went to Vancouver yesterday. Some people do that every day, once will be enough for me. I haven’t been over to the big smoke for a long time. There was not a lot I recognized anymore and I felt absolutely like an alien. The Bog Trotter in Xanadu. And, God forbid, masses of people actually live in that swirling concrete mess. How? You have to evolve into a different sort of creature. It’s clear. I first hit Vancouver over fifty years ago. Intimidating as it was to me, there was a very different flavour to my senses then. The city seemed easy-going, relaxed with even the hint of a frontier town. It’s very different now. There is certainly nothing relaxed about it anywhere. I once sailed my boats into False Creek. I’d anchor there and conduct my business and pleasure there, using my boat as accommodation. I could not be at ease enough now to do that in the maelstrom of stone-faced humanity, din and harshness that the city has become.

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to visit the Queen.

Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under her chair.

I rode across to Downtown Vancouver on a recently instituted ferry service for foot passengers called HULLO. Once their Nanaimo terminal was located at the end of some convoluted routing with poor signage, the rest was a breeze. The staff were all grand, the boat amazing, and the trip was a dream. I’ve never been on a passenger vessel with seat belts before, but having made my living out there on the open strait, I’m sure some days they’re necessary, especially when skimming along at near-flying speed. The boat was immaculate, the ride was magnificent and on time. You are delivered into the bowels of Vancouver a few blocks from the Seabus / Skytrain terminal where for $2.10 I was whisked off to the far east side of the city. Full Kudus to HULLO and to the Vancouver transit system.

The hi-backed seats hide how many passengers there are. There is also an upper deck.

Then this which I much prefer. Jill and the doggy girls take me for a stroll in magic land.

No comments on what has become of the city. It reminded me of that old Blade Runner movie. Nor would I have been surprised to see a naked Arnold Shwarzenegger character throwing cars around. To me everything seemed surreal and the people completely abstract. My sleepy little Ladysmith is a much more comfortable place for human beings like me.

In comparison to Hullo, my return trip to Vancouver Island, now with a vehicle, was made with BC Ferries. “Thank you for travelling with BC Ferries.” Yeah right; as if we have any damned choice. I often rant about the general inefficiency and ineptitude of this crown corporation. Here’s my latest experience. I arrive at Horseshoe Bay at about 5 pm. I am told that the next boat will depart at 6:35 pm but, chances are that sailing is already full. I’ll probably be on the next boat at 10:10 pm. Yet I could be lucky, “Ya never know. Stay in your vehicle!” I’m hungry and want to walk into Horseshoe Bay, but fair enough, shit doesn’t always happen and I’ve already missed enough ships in my life.

The signs indicated to follow lane 6 for Nanaimo and so I went, pulling up behind a magnificent Ural motorcycle and sidecar on a trailer. A BC Ferry worker in a 3/4 ton 4×4 with beaucoup flashing lights pulls up behind, and tells me that I’m in the wrong lane. My ticket says lane 4. So, at his behest I back up a very long way and settle into place for my long wait in the longest line. I knew that I had no hope of getting onto the next boat. My stomach is growling but I cling to a ridiculous faint hope.

.At 6:45 there is yet another garbled intercom announcement that ‘Queen Of Surrey’ from Nanaimo is now arriving. The wait continues. No vehicles drive off of the boat and finally comes another announcement that the ferry is having problems with the ramp but will have things sorted “momentarily.” Finally there are three blasts of the ferry’s horn, the reversing signal. Now another announcement, the problem can’t be solved and the vessel is moving to a different dock.

To make this long story a bit shorter, let’s just say I did make it onto that next ferry, there was only one vehicle behind me that was squeezed aboard. I was stunned to find that same motorcycle on the trailer four places in line ahead of me. WTF? Of course the boat is crowded now with hundreds of tired, confused, hungry, grumpy passengers. Screaming babies seem to be everywhere and no-one is inclined toward graciousness. I shuffle into line for the cafeteria. Baa! It moves at a glacial pace but it’s the only game on the boat. Finally I arrive at the order counter and note to a worker that there are no more trays. “No there’s not,” she agrees, “we’re short-staffed!” The meal I wanted was “All out.” It was simply a mushroom burger and apparently not something which could be cooked on demand. I agree to something else. “That’s OK, I’ll just carry my meal to a table on top of my head.” There was laughter in the line behind me. Finally some tiny trays were produced and slammed down, then my food was slammed down.

I survive by looking for the humour in things but it was goshderned hard to find any there. The crew DID look stressed and weary but that should not be the passenger’s problem. I heard one kitchen worker explaining to a passenger about how very distressing the stuck ramp ordeal had been. Really? You were all down there working on it? Wow, you don’t even have any dirt on your apron! Once again the announcement came thanking everyone for sailing BC Ferries. Uhuh! I so happy to drive off of that ferry. At 10:10 pm I passed the Nanaimo ferry parking yard which was full of vehicles hoping to make it to Vancouver yet that day.

The new dog uber. What I drove home from Vancouver. The Hemouth is gone. Here’s something simple, affordable and easy to find in a parking lot.

Mating season. Maybe there will be more little trucks.

I’m finding plenty of fungal photos this fall.

Years ago I experienced a very odd loading protocol on another ferry trip. When I said to a deckhand “You’ve got to tell me what that was all about,” he replied, “No I don’t.” That sums it all up I’d say. When I compare BC Ferries to Hullo or to Blackball Ferries I am simply embarrassed. An old proverb says that a “Fish stinks from the head first.” Could be.

What can be finer than to wonder as you wander?

“It is always in season for old men to learn.” Aeschylus

Gauntlet

Well, just fly on by into the sunset. We’ll be here to see you when you come back.

Reconciliation Day is past, a precursor for Thanksgiving, which has now also slipped by. One excuse for a paid day off work is as good as the next. Everything I have to say on reconciliation is taboo so I’ll keep my squeaky, politically incorrect pie hole to myself. That’s statement enough.

They appear each late summer and bloom on into fall. I don’t know what they’re called but I admire their delicate hardiness.

I talked with a lady from Peru this past weekend and when I asked about concessions for First Nations people there, she simply smiled and explained that eighty percent of the population is indigenous and human rights were questionable. No-one is entitled to anything simply for showing up and if you can prove you deserve special rights and are somehow superior to anyone else you’ll get special considerations. If we pull down some pants I’m confident we’ll find similar plumbing as other folks, and that’s regardless of what gender you’d like to be…today. Meanwhile, life down here in the Last Nations is getting no easier. Ho! But, we’re all equal and nobody gets extra cake.

This oak is usually one of the last to turn colour and shed its leaves. Strange!

Libby on the bridge to troubled water. She is an intrepid explorer.

It’s the end of the line. This replica rail commemorates the mining railway from the old Copper Canyon mines to Crofton.

Morning again? Where ya dragging me off to today?

I recall Gary Larsen’s ‘Boneless Chicken Farm’ and I’m thinking about the ‘N Rocking B’ cattle ranch (Non-Binary for short) How big is your herd? One steer! I once heard a military chaplain describe ultimate evil as the “destruction of innocence.” I am enraged at learning children go to school now to be questioned about what pronouns and gender they’d prefer. How dare you? Life is confusing enough for wee children without that sort of madness. Now go ask your mother what gender he is. Children are everyone’s future. Treat them with respect. Believe what you want, good on you, but don’t demand anyone else swallow your slippery pills.

Mount Baker on the left, 136 km away from Crofton

Pier pressure. Yet another lovely autumn day.

Meanwhile, when the afternoons are warm and dry, I wobble off to improve my motorcycling skills. So far I’ve come home every time with my head where it should be and both wheels beneath me. An online motorcycle course admonishes motorcyclists to consider themselves prey and everyone else predators. I think that’s right. At least now I have the power to zoom away from tailgaters. There is no feeling like being able to see only the corner of someone’s grill immediately behind your back at over 90kph and you can’t get away. Motorcycles also magnify how quickly things can go wrong. A blink or a glance away can become a nasty error. How motorcycle racers operate up around 200 mph is an admirable but dubious skill. Most of them die on a bike. Zoom, gone. I’ve learned already to stop to admire the flowers or any view. Staying alert to the road is a full time job and the view in my mirrors is as important as looking ahead. I will also admit that being a senior involves operating with not-so-sharp skills (if I ever had any) anymore. That awareness is the first skill in staying alive.

A day later. Waiting for a cargo in the variable fall weather.

In our little town there is a four-way-stop intersection at the top of main street. You enter the street on the bottom end by manoeuvring around the entitled folks arriving and departing the local Him Tortons temple, then navigate your way through the roundabout framed with four pedestrian crossings. Next comes the gauntlet proper, the main street. It climbs uphill and is loaded with several more cross walks, which few use. Folks meander out from the curbs anywhere except on the crosswalks or launch themselves from the curb without bothering to look.

When I was a wee boy I’d take my toys apart. Now I’m older, not getting them back together is not an option. I was tracking down a noise I didn’t like.

More is not better. I discovered there was far too much oil in the engine. Old oil in the bucket, the 1 litre bottle on the right is nearly the required amount. Overfilling an engine with oil is very bad business and can even destroy the whole motor.

A Taliban laundromat. Chaos and neglect everywhere. I felt like Io needed a shower after washing my coveralls in this sad business.

I once almost wiped out our resident movie star as she and her mom launched themselves from the curb while deep in conversation. Visiting drivers, and perhaps residents, may stop in each intersection to view what’s of interest up the hill on that street. And to balance things there are those who zoom past stop signs in a rolling right turn without bothering to look to their left. Of course angle parking on a hill is a challenge for some, while others enjoy u-turning into a spot on the other side of the street. That seldom goes smoothly. A few days ago a huge motorhome was parked downtown in one of those angled spots and had the lane blocked while they probably stood in the lineup outside the “World-famous bakery.” On the other side of the street a delivery truck from Penguin Meats was doubled-parked in front of our local butcher. I wanted to ask the driver, “ So who eats all the penguins?” Other folks back out of their parking spot from behind one of those jacked-up testosterone trucks in a single car-length lurch, often indignant that you didn’t slam to an instant stop and heave your keys out onto the street.

Finally, you arrive at the four-way stop. The protocol is as simple as it gets, first come-first go, pedestrians crossing considered. Some folks however (Note that I didn’t say OLD) arrive in their geezermobil with windows rolled up tight, geezer goggle sunglasses on (Regardless of the weather) Covid mask in place, sometimes beneath a broad hat and wearing surgical gloves. They glare out at the world while pondering their next move. They may sit in their sterile bubble while trying to direct the movements of their fellow motorists. *#^^^! just play by the rules thank you.

Then along comes a chunky, obstreperous old fart on his new-to-him motorcycle. Rmmn, rmmn, old rumble bottom hisself. Watching from the sidewalk are bewildered tourists and God-botherers attending their rack of religious literature, roadmaps to heaven. They smile munificently out on the fray where folks have apparently ascended beyond the primal instinct of fear. “I shall fear no evil, especially my own.” Ladysmith, where everyone is on a hill.

They often break through brick-hard ground overnight.

Some are yum, some are deadly and can cause a hideous illness which leave you wanting to die. I enjoy the mystery of them all.

Thanksgiving Day at the corner of Seemore and Do Less. This is the intersection and four-way stop I describe. Some folks actually sit and wait until someone else arrives. It’s all downhill from here.

Every town is alleged by its locals to have the worst hospital, police, fire department, schools and…drivers. But struth, I’m sure we’re among the finalists. Yet, have you ever heard anyone declare what a poor driver they are? Ladysmith is self-acclaimed to have the best main street in all of Canada. Uhuh! It’s a gauntlet!

An overview of Nanaimo today. It’s a flawless autumn afternoon although slowly retreating fog still covers much of the Strait Of Georgia.
Rain tomorrow.

“Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.” Albert Einstein

What’re The Odds?

We’ve begun to experience autumn weather with bouts of blustery wind and blasts of rain. Leaves and needles are knocked off the trees and our green summer frippery is on the turn. I understand the changing seasons but I’m puzzled about fir needles. The wind can perfectly insert one beneath a vehicle’s windshield wiper. Consequently it is always located exactly where the arcing streak of water it causes provides maximum visual irritation. No matter how hard it rains or the wind blows, or how fast you drive, that fir needle lodges itself firmly beneath the wiper blade and rides back and forth until you personally remove the wee bugger. If it occurs once, well shit happens, but how can that repeat so often? That mystifies me.

No bells. Next summer seems so far away.

I’ve just sold my lovely wee red scooter cycle. I’ll miss it. This old fat boy felt like a pig on a roller skate on that little beauty. Every time I went ding-ding-dinging down the road with those tiny wheels spinning among the potholes there was an uncomfortable angst. The Honda Navi wasn’t intended for off-pavement use so wobbling along desert roads would have been a disaster. I’ve recently wondered if maybe being over 70years old isn’t good reason to leave motorcycles behind. It is clearly not. The fellow who bought the little Honda is 80! He’s taking it to Mexico. Enough said. Wait til you see what I’ve bought. Haaar! Courage mon vieux!

Yom Kippur today, and all the world is at war or on the edge of it. Even the Israelis are tussling among themselves. Perhaps that will give the Palestinians a bit of a break. After thousands of years of swords, spears, and shields nothing is going to change overnight. I’ve never been to that part of the world but images I see make it look a horribly bleak place to fight over. What strange creatures we are! Save the planet? We can’t ever get along with each other! We don’t even want to!

It’s UIO. These lovely wee stuffed toys are hand-knitted. I think they’re delightful.

Much further up the spectrum here’s another brilliant piece of art. It suddenly appears as you motorcycle along a winding country road.

You never know what’s around the next corner.

Here, on the 25^th of September the greenery outside is lashing about in a vicious gusting wind and rain hammers on the skylights. I’m going 40 miles north to bring home my new motorcycle. Smart as he looks, smart as he looks! Two days later it is still drizzling and raining as if it has forever. It feels like it. The thought of the winter ahead leaves me wondering how the hell I’ll make it through to spring. A week ago some folks were complaining about how hot and dry it was. Isn’t life odd? Absolutely nothing is forever.

Back roads have delightful surprises. It’s the only way to travel if you can.

The rain finally eased and I took my new motorcycle out for a spin. I stalled it and fell over right at the turn out onto the street. No harm done and I teetered off at the back of the parade all the while lecturing myself that I had to drive as if I knew nothing. What I used to do fifty years ago means zero. To underscore all the skill that I’ve lost, my front brake suddenly quit. Nice feeling! A hydraulic fitting had come loose, I repaired that quickly. Once again the lesson hit home, assume nothing. The bike soon proved to be the right one for me. There are some mechanical tweaks, and some old man tweaks, but what a joy to be flying along with an machine that is comfortable in its task. However, the damp air soon ate through me and I came home a popsicle. Warm riding pants are a must, the ones with the skid pants on the bum and knees. There is one type of weight loss which I’d as soon avoid.

Sniff that! One of those quick moments along the trail.

Busted. Dunno, thought he went your way.

Yesterday seemed reasonably warm so off I went to visit friends in Nanaimo. The bike and I made it home in one piece, albeit a little humbler. Relearning how to smoothly work the clutch and throttle is a bit challenging, especially when I start to think about it. Somebody went home last night telling about an old fart doing the herky jerky motorcycle dance in an intersection. I must have been a sight. Be warned, I’ll be back at it today. This may kill me, but that’s fine. No lingering hospital departures for me. I’ve been there. Shit-brindle beige is not my colour.

A jewel in the navel. The community garden and sandbox in downtown Ladysmith.

I’ve made another lovely trip into the back country. I love the bike. 250cc is more than enough to fling me along well over any speed limit or up any mountain. Why I’d need more is beyond me. Although, I recently sat aboard a 1800cc BMW and will admit to a little tingle. Do they come with knobby tires? For me more power seems decadent as well well as having to pick up a heavier bike when I fall over. I’ll make my little adjustments and inspections now. I want to feel absolutely ready to go south at my earliest convenience. Steeling my mind for winter here leaves me cold and feeling dead. Somehow, this year I’ve got to get down there. If only this motorbike could fly. What an image!

One fine day. Suddenly, after a few days of rain, the sun is no longer a curse.

“Make yourselves sheep and the wolves will eat you.” Benjamin Franklin