March 2026 - bc-bog-trotter.com

From where I view the world. In the murky dawn I can hear sea lions. Later a little sunlight appears.

There are nearly one and a half billion Chinese. This is a nation of folks who can eat soup with chop sticks; an art I am yet to master. I mention this only as admiration for ancient skills beyond my understanding. They also understand patience and long, hard work. Some of the world’s largest earth-filled dam’s are in China. They are mostly built by hand, one hatfull of soil at a time. It is a nation of formidable determination. We could learn things.

A courier delivered a heavy box today. My wife had ordered an open wardrobe for our guest suite. Yep, it was made in China. My job was to assemble it. Me, the jaded old mechanical guy. The first trick was opening the box which was emblazoned with a warning “DO NOT USE SHARP KNIFE TO OPEN.” Uhuh! Of course one has to use a knife and with that accomplished there was the ubiquitous explosion of white styrofoam insulation; statically charged snow stuck to everything. “Well golly” I muttered as I surveyed a cleverly-packed heap of bits and pieces. There must be a university degree available for packing boxes. You’ll never get the contents back in again. Bags of screws all counted out to the exact amount required, marked tubes of various lengths were all to be assembled into a single fuctional contraption. Frankly the heap of bits looked a bit like a home-built airplane kit; yes a real airplane. Serious business. Where to start? The manual, including a tool kit, was in the bottom of the package, of course.

Contraption complete. I used my own tools.

More instructions. First I need new glasses.

It won’t fly. But everything eventually fit together perfectly and it is solid as a rock. The only tools I needed were two proper screwdrivers. All I had to do was look carefully at the drawings in the manual. I recall that the worst diy assemble-at-home furniture I’ve faced was neither from Asia or Scandinavia but from Quebec. I can read French and the instructions still made no sense. Pictures are good.

When I think of Canada’s new agreement to buy Chinese Electric Cars I wonder if the low price means they have to be assembled by the buyer! Clever people those folks!

Anenome fading. Perhaps the most beautiful time.

It is Monday morning, Friday the 13^th has passed, Saint Patrick’s day is now in the rearview mirror. It is cold, damp, grey. The week ahead is forecast to be a continuous rain storm. Flood warnings are posted. The wind at times is filled with a mix of wet snow flakes and cherry blossoms but by week’s end the biblical deluge has not arrived here. Friends describe their vacations in Mexico. Good for you! The news from around the planet is filled with doom and gloom, suffering and hopelessness. Clearly, there is an invasive species that is out of control. We know who we are.

Down in my workshop I’m building a doghouse. Springtime. Uhuh!

Walk quickly, you don’t need any hairy sticks.

Happy people produce. Bored people consume.”
― Stephen Richards

The Sea Duck

Some folks call them sea ducks. I know them as mergansers. They are furtive and elusive. The brief and distant glimpses they allow provides a mystery to the jaunty figures they cut. They have a Woody Woodpecker haircut, the females have a russet colour to their crested heads, the males are black and oftern mistaken for loons. When they see you they will paddle away vigourously or dive instantly or explode into startling rapid flight.

Ring-Beaked Common Merganser. It’s the shiny things that get us all.

The dogs and I were sitting at our favourite spot in the local salmon hatchery soaking up a few minutes of delightful mid-winter sun when I noticed a clump of feathers hauled out on a nearby log. I was glimpsing this apparition through a thatch of tree limbs and assumed it was a gull which is seldom a shy bird.

Another fish-eater. Blue Herons are one of my favourite birds. They can be found just about anywhere around the world.

To my surprise it was a female common merganser. It had a metal ring jammed over its upper beak right to the base. It was clearly unable to eat. It was not doing well, otherwise it would not be sitting there alone and allowing me, and the dogs, to approach within thirty feet. This beauty needed help. I feared she would starve unless the ring could be removed.

I went to the folks at the hatchery, but clearly I was not going to spark enough interest to attempt a rescue. Their little boat was away for repairs and I understand that mergansers eat the tiny salmon hatchlings. At home I began to telephone all the people advertising themselves as animal/ bird rescue organizations. I did hear a creative collection of excuses. Reluctantly I phoned the BC Conservation folks. (Usually when a conservation officer becomes involved, something gets shot) Admittedly they were the only ones to respond at all.

That call-back came hours later from someone with a very broad Cantonese accent. At first I thought he was another telemarketer. I was hanging up when I heard him say “Common Merganser” albeit with his twisted pronounciation. Eventually I grasped that he saying he was in Vancouver and so could render no assistance. I thanked him for the call and then hung up in frustration. I’d done my best. I could not do anything effective on my own. If I tried, chances were there would be some self-appointed gatekeeper calling someone like ICE to take me down for harrassing wildlife. God knows that is the world we live in now.

Abeautiful basket filled with spring nettle tips. They became soup. Yum!

Next morning I was back at the hatchery and could see no mergansers, anywhere. That was good I reasoned. The bird had been caught and helped… or it had been able to fly away with its flock. In any case, it was well enough to fly and I had done my best.

Another sign of spring. It is not my idea of going to sea but at least they’re out there!

First flowers from the garden this spring.

Ok, I know this isn’t a very interesting story to most people. But of bemusement to me is that I was once a farm boy with a single-shot .22 rifle who typically killed everything he could see. I remember once killing a tiny song bird. For no reason. All that was left was its pea-sized heart still beating on top of the fencepost where the little singing bird had sat moments earlier. At the time I though it was funny. I have graduated to possessing a nagging sense of disgust and self-contempt for being such a horrible little brute.

A notion of progress. The toilet goes here. IP

I evolved to become a seasoned great white hunter and killed an awful lot of beautiful wild creatures big and small. They did all become food but eventually I could not justify hunting any more. I realized my slaughter was as much about testorone as anything to do with being a provider. I didn’t want to feel that I was one of those bastards. Now I’m another kind of nasty human… an urbanite! An overweight one who aches to be back in the woods and out on the ocean, far away from the sight, sound and smells of people living in grossly unnatural congestion. Then we become unnatural beings and chose for leadership those other unnatural beings who prove too unfit for any sort of progressive human endeavour.

If that makes me a bird hugger … so be it!

“ So much of language is unspoken. So much is comprised of looks and gestures and sounds that are not words. People are ignorant of the vast complexity of their own communication.”

…Enzo the dog, ‘The Art Of Racing In The Rain’ Garth Stein

Month: March 2026

Clever People

The Sea Duck