When I woke up this morning. An hour later it was raining again.Have you seen my little dog. Despite the dawn she snored on contentedly.
Sitting slumped in a restaurant booth, I watched a television hockey game reflected on the rain-spattered window. We were experiencing a late-winter gale with high wind and heavy rain. It was supposed to rage on through the night. Two emergency vehicles with screaming sirens pelted off down the highway into the gathering darkness. That damned bridge construction again! I was dejected. My effort at a simple plumbing repair had turned into a monster. We were eating out because I had to leave the water shut off. My wife is not happy with me. Neither am I.
Yes really! A White Fawn lily. Winter must be over.A Currant bush in flower.And in my garden, things are showing up. It’s our first spring here so there are all sorts of mysteries appearing.
Nothing is forever. Understanding that is a joy of aging. “This too shall pass.” So…when you see certain politicians on the tely, know they’ll be gone one day. The plumbing is corrected, the rain has ended, life goes on.
A Nuthatch, or Little Quank, Does it know how tiny it is? It is as important as any other creature in the woods.Knock, knock. Having breakfast and helping keep the forest green.Then came the carpenter ants. If you listen carefully, you can sometimes hear their tiny power tools.
Today is another spring day. Don’t make plans, the weather will change. This morning there was a sparkling sunrise. Everything was sharp and rich with colour. In a bight a mile across the bay from my window is a house with a huge, impossibly green lawn. Beneath the lawn, down a bank beside a long dock sits an overturned canoe. Directly above the canoe’s bow, up in the treeline on the ridge behind is the pointed top of a green water tower hidden among the tree tops. It is hard to find even when you know it is there. Today into that crystal air smoke rises in laddered shafts among the surrounding forest. Spring clean-up I suppose and a moment frozen in time back to when wood smoke was a sign of civilization. Now it is part of a panorama of houses all along the shore and I wonder how it looked before the encroachment of all us crackers.
Sleep tight, our Navy is awake…and hiding in Ladysmith Harbour. This is an Orca class coastal training vessel. Identified as # 57, can we call her the’Heinz?’A morning delivery.By mid-afternoon it would soon be time to head out for the next load.I don’t want it but I sure admire it; and wish I could afford one like it. Then I could buy a really nice boat. A favourite local home to me, it always reminds me of a time when poor people lived by the sea and ate fish.
Later in the day, after a drive home from Nanaimo in a pounding rain and hail storm I sit back at my desk. The massive storm cell through which I drove now speeds southward on a westerly wind. The black mass with its dark skirt of precipitation is born in a clear sky. The surface wind on the harbour comes from the south, the opposite direction to the winds aloft. They’re shooting more movie scenes in our Downtown much to everyone’s inconvenience. One block on main street has been remade to look like a small town in Colorado. I wonder if there is not a movie set in Colorado made to look like Ladysmith. I also ponder about whatever happens to our movie earnings. Despite a very public impact we are never told where that bonus revenue goes. It is a secret. Spring.
The crew shivers through another dawn, wondering when they’ll be assigned a berth and a cargo.An Egg McStumpinIt’s not mine. Good tradesman always put their tools away.
Let me repeat some old wisdoms. “If it seems too good to be true, it is.” I’ve been trying to organize my workshop and after much recrimination decided to order a too-cheap-to-be-true tool chest. It was a scam, money out, no toolbox. When you’re low with funds you tend to take some dangerous chances. “There’s no fool like an old fool.” Uhuh. Spring.
Yup that’d be me. The suit and tie is my disguise.
“Flowers don’t worry about how they’re going to bloom. They just open up and turn toward the light and that makes them beautiful.”
The ‘Polynesian Queen’ heads upriver under the Astoria Bridge. An hour earlier she was inbound over the notorious Columbia Bar. The bridge is huge, very high and five miles long.
Another year, another trip to the Fisher Poets Gathering in Astoria. It is something I treasure and looking forward to the event helps me through the winter. I have to thank my wife for her wonderful support. High lights have included an intense inspection by a US Homeland Insecurity K9. What a beautiful dog! The trip proved to be the usual litany of rainy grey roads and the gauntlet of trying to find a motel in the dark. The road signage at times is terrible and I really prefer now not to drive once the sun goes down. Many vehicles have searing bright headlights and not content with that, their owners will have banks more of add-on blazing lamps and do not dim anything as they approach. Of course these vehicles also usually have jacked-up suspensions as well. Share the glare! Having a blinded old geezer’s truck jammed in their grill is a potential danger they don’t grasp. The testosterone years! Somehow I survived my own and don’t want to go in a puddle of someone else’s juice.
A real truck. It’s almost paid for! 1964 Ford complete with tool box beneath cargo bed and a puddle of pee on the rear tire. The engine is an orignal 292 with a classic stuttering roar…music to my ears. The sign in the back window says”Eat More Possum.”Where the deer hit.If you can’t see my mirror, I can’t see you. Images may be closer than they look.
I vowed to keep my political mouth shut while in Amurica. It is too dangerous in an agitated country that may have a hand gun in nearly every purse and pair of pants. I did see a large demonstration in one town where everyone waved signs saying “Who Elected Musk?” My Canadian heart sang. I like driving back roads. There is a copious number of people who seem to prefer inhabiting the bog lands in broke-back hovels in varying states of decay surrounded by moats of mud heaped with junk. Huge black hogs snuffled in the carnage. Many of these properties displayed large TRUMP 2024 signs. Say no more, just button up the old lip. I don’t want to end up feeding the beasties in someone’s patch.
Downtown Raymond WA A patch of sidewalk in front of the Hungry Heifer Cafe.Glory Days, Raymond.Buying yourself a job. Downtown Raymond.The way we were.
I spent one long night in a redneck motel. Sometimes you take what can be found. The office was guarded by a huge yellow dog named Elmer. He was a delight. But the room, good grief! The carpet had streaks of black tractor grease and a stain like someone’s donkey couldn’t hold it anymore, the bedside lamp didn’t work, the toilet was plugged, there were evil-looking stains all over the bathroom wall, the linoleum was damaged in several places. All the caulking around the shower was covered in mould. Grey spider webs wafted from the ceiling. Of course the internet password did not work.The Eeech Inn. Yes, I checked the bedding, it seemed fine. All this included for a full fee. Elmer, you old dog! The proprietor, when asked about nearby food, told me about MacDonalds over the bridge. So I found a lovely tavern right across the street from my room, with great craft beer, good home cooking, live music and friendly locals. Uhuh? All night folks out on the street were trying to do tricks with their ve-hickles and none seemed to have mufflers. Then around 04:00 the loggers staying next door got up and dieseled away into the night after a good long warm-up.
Rickshaw World, Astoria.Arriving at Marrowstone Island near Port Townsend this US Navy vessel gets the Queen Bee treatment. “Ye may have crossed the Pacific but ye canna dock it on yer own!”
First thing I wanted to do at my next accomodation was to have a long, hot shower. I guess not every town can have a Trump Hotel. I don’t find the drive southward through the state of coastal Washington particularly scenic. There seem to be endless miles of raped and abandoned forest, mouldering little towns gasping their last breaths. But, those back routes, for me, certainly beat the chaotic gauntlet that is the throbbing pain of driving in the Seattle area. Everything seems exploited. The drive on highway I5 seems an endless strip mall all the way to Portland which is also a tumbling mess of urban blight. There are certainly wonderful and uplifting places to visit but so much seems so very soul-less in the land of the free.
Shop Astoria. They had some wonderful items…at wonderful prices!Astoria tattoo shop.Sundown on the riverThe old butcher shop now selling……Thundermuck coffee.
Well there was plenty of soul in Astoria. It is truly wonderful to meet up with old friends of a kindred spirit. There was a blur of wonderful poetry and music. All too soon it was time to head home. Up early in the morning, back over the long, long bridge and then a heads-down drive to the Black Ball Ferry terminal in Port Angeles. Home again in Ladysmith by Sunday night and then it is as if the event had never happened. Now it is already nearly a week since my return. Several folks apologized to me for their gormless president’s remarks about the 51st state. I get it, and appreciate their chagrin. We have similar issures here.
Since 1926Breakfast at the Workers. The bartender kept busy pouring drinks and cooking wonderful meals.A place of refuge.penciled beneath the word author it says “who judges books by their cover”Ching, ching, ching, ching, music to eat eggs derelict with a bloody mary.The devil’s in the details.Blink! The dogs were within three feet of it before the rabbit bolted.The poser. In the centerfold of ‘Playmutt’ Magazine
In the few days that I was away the snow had all melted. Flowers are trying to bud and it is time to get to work on this new old house and yard. So, first thing I did was to blow up my used pressure washer. It was a great price and worked wonderfully; twice. Now it is up on my shop bench with the guts hanging out of its pump.
Some farmer’s sons never learn! Spring is sprung. Time for a good manure spreader.
Isn’t it amazing what people can achieve when they work together? The Astoria bridge is 5 miles long where it spans the mighty Columbia River. It has 200 feet of clearance at mid-tide. The river can run at up to nine knots. Politicians should look at this bridge over bubbling waters and think about a few things other than themselves.
In short, corruption destroys the ‘deal’ – the bargain – between the citizen and the state; and it harms the poorest most. Hilary Benn
Heading out. The view from my Astoria motel room. Sliding under the Columbia River Bridge, within the hour she’ll be over the Columbia Bar, will have dropped off her pilot and be setting a heading for somewhere in Asia. Magic! The white exhaust means she’s switching over to burn Bunker C, a thick, toxic fuel oil which is much cheaper to burn.Streaming artifical intelligence?The bogman goes to town. Astoria is a fascinating town to visit, with shops, restaurants, architecture and scenery which should interest everyone.I can only guess the rest of the story. Astoria, like most Westcoast communities has its share of dead-end stories. I don’t think this was one, vbut there was no sign of happiness here.
February 28th sees a torrential rain with dire warnings for the whole day. I messed around until noon, waiting for the rain to ease before taking my two wee dogs out for their daily walk. They waited patiently. When I was finally getting ready to go, I discovered a very neat dogpile on the floor in front of the toilet. Now that’s a clear, simple political statement. Dogs can teach us so much!
Local talent. Roosevelt elk are indigenous. At Fort Smith they provide an organic solution for cutting and fertilizing the lawns.Coffee Blues. Buildings are painted boldly in Astoria, there’s a taste in cuisine and music for everyone.This forepeak will never go to sea again. The old hull has some fine lines, but no living thing goes on forever.Home, Sour home. Someone’s shelter. The garbage seethed with fat, brown rats.Hooped. Art without intent.Little boxes. No more buzzing in the crossed wires.Mechano Spawn. The art galleries are fabulous. I could have spent thousands.
I’m home again after a grand weekend in Astoria at the annual Fisher Poets gathering in Astoria. From Ladysmith it is a three hundred mile drive plus a twenty-five mile ferry ride. All went well, my readings were well-received, I was MC at one event and met up with old friends and new. Astoria is a delightful town and my one regret, as usual, is heading home again so soon.The weather, for once, was decent, but Highway 101 south of the town named Forks, has deteriorated badly, so with ferry connections the trip is the best part of a day each way.
OK!?Retro town. The cherished architecture of Astoria is grand.Poke On InAn old railcar is slowly recycling itself.Wanna buy some good used chain? Each link is about 10″ long.Snappy HourDennis performs. He’s hilarious! The event has grown to present over 100 readers and musicians.Doreen is in her nineties. She’s eloquent, fresh and feisty. Many of the younger performers are also incredible.I stop to talk with pretty girls. This is Stella.Astoria has several excellent Mexican restaurants, ‘El Jarrocho’ is the newest and is fantastic.Hung by the river. Some old rigging from days gone by. The pigeons love it.Keeping up appearances.I wannit! Left-hand steering; an ultimate 4×4 truck.The line. Ships anchor in the Columbia River to take on cargos as far inland as Idaho.“Skipper, I see fish.” A rare find, a new fishing boat under construction. The openings are for a bulb-bow and a bow thruster.
The two pm ferry trip back to Victoria meant I had to leave my Astoria motel by 06:30 and arrived in Port Angeles 6 hour later after an intense drive. That’s when the fun began. The boat did not have a large load but it would prove to be a memorable trip, especially for all those not of nautical experience. All the way from the Oregon border (Columbia River) I had been chased by an advancing cold front. Gusting blasts of wind and a heavy cold rain hounded me up the twisting route. Now it was arriving at the Strait of Juan De Fuca. Tugboaters know it as “Wanna Puka.”
The Coho swings in for a stern-to landing in Port Angeles. It was poetry in motion.This cable layer was laying at anchor facing east. Then the squall-line hit. She abruptly swung 180 degrees and settled in for the blow about a half mile from where she’d been. You can see that she’s actually heeling to a big blast of wind.The spit at Port Angeles which shelters the bay, and the open strait beyond.Let the silly walks begin.Salt water window wash. Perhaps this little girl will always remember her ride.Is this the up side or the down ?
A fierce westerly hit the bay at Port Angeles. There were no large waves but a suddenly a flat foam raced across the ocean’s surface. A small sloop with its genoa out took a serious schooling. I went to the front of the boat and took my photos and video early. I knew what was coming and did my best to keep my smirks to myself. I know the ‘M.V.Coho’ as the stout and seaworthy ship she is. Outside the buoy on the spit the plunging and rolling began. It is amazing how quickly large seas can build, especially when an ebbing tide slams into a gusting thirty knot breeze. Within minutes the passengers were practicing their silly walks, clinging to anything apparently solid. Some made their way to the front windows which were now regularly covered in inches of sea water blowing over the bow. One twit decided it would be manly to go stand at the forward flagstaff and show the world how daring he was. Fool! Most of the water was going over his head but one errant lump would have taken him overboard without a trace. I was not going out to tell him so and clearly neither were any of the crew. Those inside he thought was posing for also saw him as an idiot.
Four more goofs joined him but were soon back inside, soaking wet and hypothermic. Other passengers gave them a wide birth. Meanwhile, the stewards went around with armloads of sick sacks. Theyv’e clearly seen it all before. If you close your eyes and remember Julie Andrews singing, hear the revised lyrics: “The decks were alive with the sound of puking.” Kansas, or wherever these folks came from, will never be the same again. They’re smarter now. It is not a recommended weight lose program. This old salt wedged himself into a corner and had a nap through the mayhem. I was at home. Aaaaar Billy!
The old boat, with her keel laid in 1959, is a marvelous sea boat, completely at ease in heavy weather and never has crippling maintenance issues. I dare to guess, that with the proper maintenance she clearly gets, she may be only at mid-life. She is owned by the Blackball Ferry Line and so far as I know, is a private business with no grants or subsidies. I wish BC Ferries, a crown corporation, would have a look at how things can be done. They, whenever the wind rises above a seagull fart, tie up the fleet and constipate coastal highway traffic massively, sometimes for days.
“Thank you for sailing BC Ferries.” As if we had a choice! Now imagine if we also had to pass through customs and immigration at BC Ferry terminals. Two of our vessels were built in Europe and of course delivered here on their own keels. Surely they can handle the Strait Of Georgia. It can get darned rough, but not like Juan De Fuca.
“Traffic, Starboard bow.” Both ships followed the book of course and all was well. Cameras have a way of making waves look much smaller. This wall of water was about twelve feet tall. You know it is blowing seriously when the wind is shaving the top of the waves.
Last Sunday, the old ‘Coho’ kissed the dock three minutes late. Guided ashore prompty, I cleared customs and was home in little over an hour. Simple.
“The unavoidable price of reliability is simplicity.”– Tony Hoare
(It follows that whenever government becomes involved, simplicity, and so reliabilty, vanishes.)
Time and broken arrows wait for no man. The arrow is Navaho from the Painted Desert in Arizona
While out walking my dogs and doing some introspections I had to admit to myself that, yep, I’m an angry old guy. It is never correct or healthy to carry anger inside one’s self but it happens and the first step in dealing with a problem is admitting it. To direct rage at someone else is always wrong. I realize that I am volatile and that frustrates me even more. I’m aware of, and working on my personal issues, there is no reason to make anyone else wear my angst.
Click! The photographer’s long shadow.
I recently attended a meeting in regard to the attempted ousting of the Ladysmith Maritime Society. I’ve written about this at length in various publications and whole-heatedly (Intentional pun) oppose this travesty against basic protocol, dignity and political acumen. There is clearly no sense of political correctness on behalf of the local municipal government, the provincial government nor the local First Nations. They appear determined to crush a very valuable achievement of and asset to the community of Ladysmith. There is an odour of some secret political agenda which exceeds any of their stated intentions. A large group of members in the LMS have put a huge piece of themselves over the years into building up a fabulous facility which self-entitled factions now have decided to acquire for themselves. The word ‘piracy’ comes to mind.
Sail Ho! I recognized ‘China Cloud’ instantly, although I have not seen her for years. She is a dear friend who inspires many fond memories.‘China Cloud’ is a junk designed and built by Allen and Sherry Farrell. They were the only real hippies I’ve ever know. Allen refused to wear shoes or use power tools. They did not talk about things, they DID it!I’ve spent many happy hours aboard this boat. Being blessed to befriend these folks was pivotal for me. I shed a tear as I grabbed these photos. They have both passed over the horizon.
These regular meetings are intended to update LMS membership about the progress of our defense against an impending takeover. The meetings are informally chaired by the LMS executive director. He’s a fine fellow and possesses qualities I never will. He is charming, silver-tongued, apparently meticulous and presents himself with a smooth charisma. At this recent meeting I heard once again the same delicious looped rhetoric as I’ve listened to ever since the issue arose. There has been no true progress in favour of the LMS situation. Every member lives with fear and doubt about the eventual outcome of this debacle. I’m sure our man is doing his job very well, and there is still our daily business to run, but smooth talking is producing no results in regard to fighting the takeover looming over us.
When I passionately interjected that our man was our employee and had no personal investment in the story, such as having his own boat to moor, I was asked angrily to leave. Fair enough. I did, amid accusations of having “Strong opinions”. Well folks when you’re fighting for something important, strong opinions are absolutely necessary. Placations may leave warm and fuzzy feelings but they get nothing done. In fact the Stz’uminus Band is now trying to coerce LMS members to renew their annual moorage agreements with them in October, instead of with LMS at year’s end. WOT? I, For one, will NOT start singing “Roll me over in the clover.” It is said of bacon and eggs that the chicken is involved and the pig is committed. I hear nothing but clucking; from everyone.
It is time that everyone affected by this matter get ferociously pissed off. Canadians have developed a digressive approach to most social issues. If we weren’t so damned polite perhaps we’d hold a much firmer position within the global community. Our Prime Minister eternally tries to be politically correct with everyone and has earned all the respect nationally and internationally of a jelly fish. If we found ourselves being invaded like the Ukraine we would be lining the streets to ask the marching troops not to step on our flowers please. Journalists frequently refer to “Illegal Wars.” What’s a legal war? We’re at war, OK? Bang!
Downtown Dogpatch. The free-living liveaboard community next to the Ladysmith Maritime Society. This bunch deeply offend many sensibilities, sometimes rightly so. I’ve always fantatisized proper modern docks around those old concrete pylons and a huge marine pub/restaurant on top of them.Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the nuts ripen.A real dog. Like so many folks, I love Irish Wolfhounds.Play ball?The dog whisperer.Old design, new design. The schooner is my mug of rum.There are lobster boat lines in this beauty.Remember this teddy? Libby’s loving continues. Its demise is imminent.Someone lovingly built this beautiful pilot house on a Willard 30 sailing hull.
I have constantly ruminated about this blog for the past week. Should I post it or not? Whom will I offend? No-one I have not already. If you truly believe within yourself that your stand is correct then it is right to speak up. It would be dishonest not to.
I don’t own a boat at the moment and have no tangible reason to involve myself in the ongoing muddle at LMS. No one seems to want to actually raise a fist and lead. I’ll remove my volatile self and strong opinions from the mix and watch from afar. The fool on the hill.
All things pass. This massive anchor chain slowly returns to the earth and sea from which it came.
“The object of war is not to die for your country but rather to make the other bastard die for his.” George Patton.
Depth of Field. Just weeds. It’s a jungle in there.
I was enjoying a few minutes of bliss wandering along a local sandstone beach. The dogs scampered happily among the driftwood. The sun was warm and the seabreeze entirely pleasant. A Rubenesque woman, clad in black spandex and blending in to the shadows, was squatting on the end of a log and suddenly shouted out “Yer dog jes took a shit!” I replied calmly as I walked on, “It’s OK. She’ll put it back.” The woman was sitting with her bumbas hanging over her perch as if she might be “taking” one herself. I wanted to point out that the scat from seals, otters, racoons and all the birds were strewn all over the beach. No point; “He who argues with a fool,” you know the rest.
My little girl Libby did her business discreetly underneath a log where no-one could tread if they wanted to. I don’t want anyone to suffer anything due to my dogs but I also refuse to step outside the bounds of basic reality. Shit happens. And so it goes.
Foxgloves and a sip of rain.The E&N railway. Exploited and Neglected. It’s a lovely place to stroll with the dogs.
My friend on the motorcycle odyssey called me early this morning. Jimmy is in Dawson City, cooling his jets and waiting for the arrival of his brother on a motorcycle. They’ll ride together on to Tuktoyaktuk, the apex of the journey, and then begin a fast but meandering journey homeward. All is well and I wish him every joy on his trip. We discussed a few current news items and got stuck on the missing mini-sub at the Titanic site. It had been four days since the alarm was sounded, they’re out of oxygen now, they’re dead. As a mariner, I mourn their loss, and empathize with their long wait in the cold and dark. At least now they sleep.
A sudden update announces a debris field which would indicate a severe malfunction and that the five aboard endured a quick and merciful end, probably only a short while into their descent.
Forest lunch. A little rain brought them up overnight, by tomorrow, they’ll probably be gone.
Jimmy related a conversation he’d recently had about this same subject. It covered all the resources spent, financial and economic, to save the lives of five wealthy people enjoying an exotic adventure. The Titanic is a grave site. It contains the remains of hundreds of people, or at least the memory of them. Now its ghosts have claimed five more lives. Leave it alone. It should be a sacred place. There are other mysteries to spend money and interest on. We have turned it into another commercial venture. But then, in another week , this too will be an abandoned story.
A week ago, an immigrant vessel off the coast of Greece, capsized and sank with hundreds of desperate souls aboard. They all invested all their resources in a mere chance at a new life. Locked below deck within a mass of terrified fellow human cargo, in the disoriented darkness, one can only image the immense horror of a slow excruciating death. We endured three days of speculation and generally uninformed opinion and now will hear nothing more. Mothers and children, in the hundreds, refuges of war and poverty, are already a forgotten news item.
Yesterday 227 migrants were rescued off the Canary Islands and in a separate incident 39 died when their inflatable boat sank. Within the past month over 5,900 refuges have been helped off the Canaries. There has been nothing on the evening news about any of this. Apparently human lives have differing values. The carnage in Ukraine continues, Sudan is an ongoing disaster, earthquake survivors in Turkey and Syria continue to grapple for basic needs. They are not newsworthy any more. We move on to the next saleable media item, such as the Glastonbury Music Festival in the UK. Mountains are swept under the rug.
For those who go out on the sea and never return.Cream rises to the top, so does scum. Welcome to the swamp.There is beauty beneath the leaves.
“If people in the media cannot decide whether they are in the business of reporting news or manufacturing propaganda, it is all the more important that the public understand that difference, and choose their news sources accordingly.” Thomas Sowell
Pacheedaht. A Westcoast beach. What a place for children!
Nothing at all. That’s what I’m doing. It’s hard. The surf thunders on the beach beneath a cloudless sky. The long crescent of sand and shingle is miles long and we have it nearly all to ourselves. We are backed up to the driftwood at the top of foreshore at the Pacheedaht First Nations Campground near Port Renfrew. It looks out on the bay known as Port San Juan. Only a two hour drive from home we are in a different world here on the opposite side of the island. The sea air from the open ocean and the sweeping view are bliss.
Port San Juan looks directly across the mouth of Juan de Fuca Strait to Cape Flattery and then the entire Pacific Ocean. That is the Northwestern tip of the State of Worshington (As they say) and also that of continental US. Last night, just on the horizon I could see the instantly familiar rhythm of the Cape Flattery Light, on Tattosh Island which marks the gateway in and out of the straight. Considering the strong tides, it is perhaps more of a hinge to that long and deadly gate. This is an area known as the Graveyard of the Pacific where the bones of ships are littered, on average one per mile. I could see radio tower lights on the ridge above Neah Bay and the twinkle of stars overhead. An outbound deep sea vessel shows her green starboard light.
Never ending rhythm. Two edges of the world constantly becoming sea, becoming land.
Tonight in this bay moonlight from a gibbous moon sparkles on the waves. A cold west wind subsided as the day’s warmth faded but I relished the heat of my small campfire. Of course I ached to be back out on the ocean, where I feel truly at home. I’ve anchored boats here when a trip along the outside of Vancouver Island met opposing tides and winds and seeking shelter here made sense. It is a rolly place to sit on the end of an anchor chain but the only option in consideration of the thrashing a boat would take out on the open sea. Being here now on the beach with my wife and two little dogs is enviable, especially in mid-week. This place is a mecca for surfers who come in droves and party hardy through the night. When the surf is right in the daytime they don neoprene suits and hone their skills in the bitter cold waters. They’re still working at the office in the city at the moment.
Things that go bump in the night. I wouldn’t want to hit this with any boat. It was flung up 100 feet above the tide line. There are hundreds more.False Lily of the Valley. Deep in the forest, another plant of subtle beauty and medicinal value. Everything has a purpose.
This certainly beats hell out of the small town environment and the strata-titled patio home where we live. That tedium and mediocrity is a fate worse than death. It is also the first time since Jill’s horrible health ordeal that she has been able to get out away from home base. THAT is something to celebrate. She is cold, cold, cold and I’ve given her one of my old fat boy shirts, which seems to help against the chill sea wind. We listen to the pulsing rhythm of the surf angling along the beach, there is a clatter of round hard stones which are first cast up the sloping sand then drawn back down; a grinding and polishing routine that is eternal. Sleep comes easily.
Abandoned logging railway trestle. There was a lot of clever engineering employed to extract the huge timber out of the mountains.
Morning comes sweetly and a day without an agenda unfurls before us in the rising wind. Campers leave, others arrive. It’s a campground after all. There is a field of monstrous logs and stumps cast up beyond the beach. The debris is scattered thickly for over a mile, a testament to the incredible power of winter storms at high tide. It would be a wonderland for children with all those spots and niches to hide and explore; a nightmare for parents trying to find their wee ones again. And there are goggles of sticks and stones for creative young minds to play with, no batteries required. What a place for children to roam, especially the city-bound, adults too! Down the beach someone flies a kite.
Another relic of the past.
Despite the incredible ocean panorama most campers settle in by shutting their Rv window blinds shortly after arriving. I can’t understand but it’s none of my business. Then a young couple arrives in a small car which bounds over the bumps and huge potholes. They soon claim the furthest picnic table and strip down to skimpy bathing costumes despite the shrill chill wind. Minutes later my old eyes see these two enjoying a vigourous round of rumpy bumby up on the table. Despite the privacy of all those logs, where they could indulge in hours of afternoon delight, they are having sex on stage. I understand some folks find thrills in being exhibitionists. Part of me is a little jealous, part of me wants to find a big stick. I’m no prude but there are children on the beach as well as others who must find such stray-dog behaviour offensive. In the end, their hormones assuaged, they leave as quickly as they arrived. The surf rolls on.
Just before sundown, a burly bicycle trekker arrives wearing a huge flourescent jacket. She transports huge bags of gear and I wonder what possesses folks to indulge in such an ambition. I’ve done remarkable things alone in sailing boats and in tiny airplanes and I’d like to do a few wee trips on a motorcycle, but a bicycle! I’d rather walk and hitch hike but then who in the hell would stop and pick up the likes of me. They’d have to be more nutters than I am. This bicycle lady expertly erected a bell tent and disappeared inside. She was gone at first light.
Barrelville. Accommodations for the weary traveler. No plumbing or level floor, $120. a night.Walk right in, just bend your head. It would be a long winter living in one of these.
As darkness falls a convoy arrives, parking trailers and motorhomes in a circle, pitching tents all around where their dogs roam free. The little community settles in for a serious party, but they’re quieter than expected. Sleep comes easily. Then one great farting Harley Davidson motorcycle arrives, touring slowly past each camping spot, looking for someone. I start thinking of that big stick again. Later, after midnight, I’m awakened again by brilliant white lights slashing into our quietude. Someone next door is out there at 01:30 erecting a tent and using their hiking headlamps. They mean no harm, they just want to sleep but their lights are annoying and so I lay listening to the surf until its zen rhytmn fades my senses into peaceful sleep; finally.
In the mouths of rivers that run into the sea there are often rich swamplands. This is a view from Barrelville,
Next morning we return home on the same route through the abandoned remains of raped first growth forest. I used to travel this road before it was paved. One would follow as closely as they dared behind a massively loaded off-highway truck. The dust would billow biblically and fist-sized rocks would be flung up from the tires of the behemoth vehicles. Other vehicles would emerge out of the dust and appear in the rearview mirror. It could be terrifying. It was my first practical use for air-conditioning which pressurized my vehicle against the ingress of smothering dust. Now that it is paved the road is bliss although dips and twists make it a different sort of challenge to navigate. Morons in vehicles, both locals and transients, travel far too fast for the road surface and don’t understand why they should stay on the right hand side of the road. So, in a new way, the road can still be terrifying. The surrounding forest is the collateral damage left after the original timber were systematically levelled about a century ago. That decimation continues, now often in stands of second-growth which arose on their own, without any help, only to be cut down again.
The whole meal deal. A salmonberry form flower to fruit.
Our forest industry has become a complicated issue. Many factions each demand to be given control of our vast forestlands. Few seem to know what the hell they’re really yelling about. Within less than two centuries we have managed to obliterate much of the original forests we marched into. We did it with the spirit of men who posed proudly beside the massive stumps they would leave behind as monuments to an age when making daylight in the swamp was a good thing. It is pathetic that so much of that resource, and its wealth, have been squandered at the hands of men who have probably never held an axe, let alone used one. A group has rallied against the logging-off a remaining stand of original timber at Fairy Creek. I don’t agree with all of their perspectives but what little is left of those pristine groves must be left in their natural state. They hold a value beyond anything monetary. So says someone who spent much of his life involved with various aspects of logging.
Now THAT’S a fungus. This ancient symbiosis stands beside an entrance to a campground. It’s closed. Because of the blind ignorance of some tourists and environmental protestors, forest companies have blocked roads and torn down signboards in an effort to prevent access to the people’s forest. It’s not right, but it is necessary to prevent certain fools from burning down the forest they say they love.
There is one remaining spruce tree along the roadside. Not all the old forest was comprised of trees nearly so big but it was certainly not the tangled mass of windfalls and thick debris left behind by loggers. It is excellent fodder for fire and at the moment a hard to fight conflagration has closed the road to Port Alberni. Traffic from the far side of the island is being re-routed along rough logging roads into the Cowichan Valley and back to paved roads and civilization. I can only imagine the urbane sensibilities of folks trying to navigate a rough, dusty, rocky trail in a huge Rv while dodging other Rvs and logging traffic. Hopefully no-one chucks their cigar butt, or joint, out the window.
Summer approaches.
This venerable Sitka Spruce is about 4 metres in diameter and impossible to guess how tall. It has been around for a long time, way before any white man. It looks quite healthy. Imagine a forest with only trees like this.
“Forests may be gorgeous but there is nothing more alive than a tree that learns how to grow in a cemetery.”
― Andrea Gibson
This arrow in the sky hung over the Strait Of Juan de Fuca for hours. It was a strange weather phenomenon
Sometimes good things happen. Yes really!
I first need to offer a kudo to an institution in Ladysmith, the ’49th Parallel Grocery.’ With all the flap, (and rightly so) about plastic bloody plastic, and single-use bags, the 49th has come up with a sensible solution. Heavier bags! Now they are multi- use bags, reusable! Wot a concept! I was a wee child when plastics were being introduced to the world, who could have seen the devastating effect this blight would become.
Paper sacks were what we used and they were hefty enough to be used over and over. My old mom threw nothing out. Even the wrappers from lard and shortening were folded and saved in the fridge for greasing baking tins. Of course those were also the days when folks still baked. All the separate ingredients were added. Today it is called “Baking from scratch.”Adding water to the powder in a box was not how one baked anything. Good grief we had it tough!
Speaking of “good old days” I had a wonderful experience today. I’m heading into the woods for a few days. Ayre is with me. I stopped for a late lunch or “lupper” in the town of Lake Cowichan. A fish ‘n chip shop advertised Deep Fried Ice Cream and so I assumed the main course would be fine. It was excellent! What intrigued me was their insistence that I bring Ayre in. She was then presented with her own little ice cream cone. Wow! It’s just what they do…screw the regulations. I love it. So did Ayre. It seemed like a surreal slip back into my childhood and it was certainly a dose of happiness, no extra charge.
A free sack to carry out your order. This wee chippy is well worth the stopFair Enough!Bliss!
Our next morning has dawned with spatters of rain and drifting fo high on the cliffs above. We are beside the road between Mesachie Lake and Port Renfrew. A long time ago I drove this route on business. You followed a logging truck in the billowing dust and flying rocks and hoped for the best. Now the way has been paved and it is a beautiful drive where vehicles can fly along far too fast to admire the scenery. A sign at the head of the road warns that there is cellular service for the next 56km. “Sounds awful risky to me Darleen. Think we should turn aroun’?” We parked about two hundred metres away from it. I was amazed at the traffic all night long. Where the hell are they all going? Drug dealers? Over-enthused surfers? Night loggers? I can also note that the night was the darkest I’ve ever know. I can’t explain how my eyes didn’t adjust to see even a faint glimmer. There was only a truly full-dimension impenetrable blackness. It was grave-dark; I did not like it.
The bridge, age unknown. The parts are all clearly handmade and the crossing is at a site of a former narrow-gauge logging railway.The stream water is sweet and crystal clearIt swings and sways and it’s magic.The old rail grade beyond the bridgeAt an old campsite beside the railbed I found all these remains littered about. How long since parts were rivetted together? Look at the U-shaped piece in the left foreground.Don’t point that thing at me! Neo metal sculpture?
By coincidence we parked beside an old suspension foot bridge. It’s narrow and wobbly and probably won’t be around much longer, either falling down or being torn down. What its history is would be intriguing. There are the footings of a previous structure and a piece of well-worn train rail. The water in the stream would be invisible if it didn’t move or hold tiny darting minnows, trout or salmon spawn I cannot say.
A molly hogan. This is the name for a locking ring made from a strand of old cable. I didn’t notice the insect until I edited this photo.
There is a mystery and magic in the woods of Vancouver Island. They have been raped and left to fend for themselves but one cannot help but admire the energy and enthusiam employed to so thorougly devastate this huge ecosystem by hand. The forest has grown back enough to leave only traces of its former grandeur. What a time it must have been!
Ayre rose to all occasions this past weekend. She loved the beach.
Port Renfrew is a beautiful place yet it always leaves me feeling despondant. As usual, it wasn’t sunny today, but that’s not it. There is just something in the air and I’m eager to move on. I was backing into a parking spot next to a concrete wall, Ayre was bobbing up and down trying to see what it was in the mirror I was watching and yep, crunch. Swearwords! No major harm done but the general store I was going into was closed, the till wasn’t working. I guess a pencil, paper and adding machine don’t work anymore! I was a huge lineup of one and needed a bit of butter. Rhymes with bugga! Life goes on and so did we… in a foul mood.
The days offered perfect light and great images seemed to be everywhere. Editing was a hard job.
The road around the Soutwestern tip of Vancouver Island to Jordan River isn’t long, it just seems that way. There are breaks in the pavement which also bucks and yaws to port and starboard like some monster had crumpled the surface and then done a vague job of smoothing it back out. All of this in a succession of hairpin turns and steep hills.My old procession maxed out, without the trailer this trip, at 50 kph. It seemed daft to go faster. Others drove their sexy motorhomes and cars as if they were filming a new advertisement for their vehicle. Zoom, zoom the girl in the tight dress said. Holy shit people! Why is the world in such a hurry? Tick, tock, gotta go chill man!
A five pounder! Bear piles were everywhere. These huge markers indicated to me that there was a claim on this blackberry patch and I wasn’t going to be the usurper. We went back to the highway.
We spent last night in a seaside camping area at Jordan River and have decided to spend another. For $15 per night. What the heck eh? We found one spot available next to a washroom with slamming doors and clanging garbage bins. Tires crunched in the gravel most of the night as people came and went but I’m not complaining. The photos explain the rest of the story. On the beach this morning I was warned by an elderly lady, “Thet heaglez goona enjoy yer dog’s bonz fer brekfas’” then she cackled like a movie witch. Ayre, in oblivion, continued to attack bits of seaweed and yes I was aware of the pair of eagles chattering to each other. The woman meant well I’m sure.
We found it. A Garmin sport watch washed ashore. As well as recording different phases of time, it records pulse rates and various bodily states and several other bits of data.
The day wears on following Ayre’s lead with naps, frolics and more exploring. She has become a very happy dog and her company is so good for the soul. Having been my daughter’s dog, to nurture her is very uplifting and sometimes heart-rending when I am reminded of my daughter. There is, however, more bad news. My daughter, who passed in April, had a special friend. She inherited many of our daughter’s belongings.That friend also had a little dog. Libby was a buddy to Ayre. Now, unbelievably, that friend has just died. What the hell is going on? We’re going into Victoria tomorrow to rescue that dog, a daschund. This is one story I’d really like to end but when the gods call, a person must be willing to listen.
Morning at Jordan River. There lays the low road.Low slack tide at dawnTide’s turn at night fall.Surf on! This old sailor has an instinct to avoid surf, rocky beaches and immersion in cold water.Note the inbound vessel on the far side of the strait. Surfers stayed out, clinging to the chance for one more moment of bliss riding one more wave.Twisted anchorsFocusDouble focusSo high. This photo had to be manipulated so the viewer could vaguely see the cranes migrating south. Their calls from altitude are unforgettable.
Sunday morning dawns spectacular and warm. Ayre and I have patrolled the beach. Piss stones and kelp balls are all accounted for. Now it is time to get on with life. This is a splendid spot, full of people, mostly surfers, who all seem very positive and come with nice dogs. I’ve been driving by here for decades, funny how you pass by some really good places. Yesterday, while walking to a surfer coffee bar across the Jordan River bridge, I was tagged on the sleeve by a motor home wandering across the painted line onto the shoulder. No harm done. Fortunately, Ayre was on a short leash in my right hand. How close we come to disaster, all in a nano-second, done or gone! The vehicle stopped at the shop and I told the driver that I took being killed rather personally. The denials flew. Life goes on. All’s well that ends, Ayre is fine, I’m meant to live a while longer, time to go see why.
Sunday morning.
Boots and saddles!
Choosing the best course, the eternal challenge.
“A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for. ― John A. Shedd
The Bee’s Knees. Little Ayre tries to rule the house and I’ll admit she is an endearing enigma.Remove all tags before operating.Aw dad! Naaw! You said these were rolls of toilet paper. NOT!
Some times when I’m poking around YouTube I stumble onto something special. I came across a performance on America’s Got Talent which is a live audition of selected acts. What I saw was a woman named Jane Marczewski aka Nightbirde. She was skinny as a rake and incredibly beautiful, even seeming to possess an aura. She sang a song she had written called ‘It’s OK’ and brought the house down as they say. She was fighting terminal cancer and she said some amazing things. “I’ve got a two percent chance of survival but that’s a lot more than zero.”
She also said “You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore until you decide to be happy.” Wow! Isn’t that warm and fuzzy? Jane has since passed away after inspiring millions. Her appearance has inspired so many other lives. It got me thinking. Head happy or heart happy? It is indeed a mighty challenge to make yourself feel happy by choice but to be happy is very different. I cannot even define that very well. I suppose it has to do with living within a sense of well-being no matter what happens to you or those around you. Then I thought further and wondered if folks like Mr Putin have inner peace. Suddenly I was exploring madness. Religions offer a promise of that, for a price, and a lot of folks have written books and make speeches about living in a state of divine nirvana. I once heard a therapist describe clients who all wanted to be happy and his perspective was that it can be achieved when one gives up expectations of bliss. Who ever told us we deserved to be constantly happy. There’s a headful!
Ayre’s favourite beachIs that Canada over there? The mainland beyond the Gulf Islands and across the Strait Of Georgia.Who says you can’t photograph a nightmare? This ant-covered flower seemed surreal to me.They kept coming.Is this better?Some sunsets, the shoreline seems to take on its own glow.
Perhaps simply being content in the moment, at peace with a current reality, knowing that nothing is forever and that all things pass, both the good and the other. For years, on the bulkheads of each of my various boats, I installed a framed black and white photo of a storm-wracked rocky beach. I had written on it “A storm always ends, enjoy it while it lasts.” Good advice if only I would pay attention.
We’ve all been there!
One of my excuses for being tardy with my blogging is that I’ve been busy re-editing my second novel. I pushed it to the back of the shelf many years ago, having given up on the notion of ever getting published. This has been an especially tough year for me, emotionally it has been an all-time low, where I have often found myself simply staring at the wall. I decided that I had to do something to affirm my existence, perhaps find my “inner peace,” and so I began the odious task of correction and punctuation of every jot and tittle. Hey, it’s a pretty darned good read! Oddly, it is set here on the coast of the Pacific Northwest and is about an austere loner who can’t exist away from the sea. I don’t know what to do with it when I’m finished but the affirmation is wonderful. The sea and being on it is my passion and reason to be. No amount of denial can change that.
When I stepped off of my beloved ‘Seafire’ I wrote that if owning “stuff” defined who I was, then I was better off without it. Well, for me life is awfully dry without a boat. Most of my friends were seadogs as well, and so we have drifted apart. A boat is a tool to live my life where I do feel content and whole and somehow I must get back there. It is who I am.
“Could you pass the sunscreen?” I put him back in the water, but although still alive, he was done. Medium rare.Woof over! And no tail gating.Pool Hog, but he’s happy.Generscape. A backup generator and a Gulf Island landscape with a muffler.The visitor. It has been raiding the nut tree next door.Wind in the corn. Flowers and cobs already.
My old truck, camper and trailer will continue to be part of my life and remain part of my plan. One of the intentions of the recent trip where I took my rig along some very rugged logging roads was that it would be a true “shakedown” trip. Anything that was going to fail, has. Guess what I’m up to these days. I’ve been sorting out the wiring for the lights and brakes. Nothing can humiliate a man quite as well. The builder of this trailer hired someone right off the farm. Wire colours meant nothing to them, nor did sharp corners. Twisting wire ends together, soldering them and wrapping them in tape seemed to be their protocol, unless…someone else down on a farm has since had a go. No worries, now I know what I’ve got. To add to the challenge my strata council has forbidden me to do repairs in any of our parking and storage areas so I’m sneaking around in public places to find an obscure corner to go tinker. Damn! I miss my boat.
On the hot, hot summer sidewalk. Subtle and haunting. I think someone is very talented.Walk onThe ‘Providence’ came back…then left again. She’s my kind of boat.
“A sailor is an artist whose medium is the wind. Live passionately, even if it kills you, because something is going to kill you anyway.” ―Webb Chiles
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
