New Technology Archives - bc-bog-trotter.com

Old Red Wheels

Venus rising. The morning star in the best part of the day.

At this time of year Arbutus trees shed their old leaves. On the path they crush underfoot and produce an aroma that should be bottled.

Some older men sit on a porch with a pot of morning coffee. They speculate if Clint Eastwood and Willy Nelson made it through the night. “Yep” offered one geezer, “they’re both older’n dirt. Can’t live forever.”

“Well so are we!” another geriatric retorted. “No point in buying green bananas for any of us.”

Which brings me to a marvellous music link at Sam Dad Radio: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkWbYjunkfs&list=RDxkWbYjunkfs&start_radio=1

It is three minutes of wonderful down south blues and should cheer anyone up. If the link doesn’t work just Google up Sam Dad Radio green bananas. Uhuh.

Artichokes are a mysterious plant. Some people eat the flower buds, I prefer to just watch them evolve. They look like a delicacy for dinosaurs.

So here I sit at 04:00 on the last Sunday in June. The glass of 2025 is at halves, full or empty, that’s up to you. Venus, the morning star, sits brightly in a cloudless sky. Various yachts sit anchored in the harbour, their anchor lights glowing prettily. I’m sleepless again. And here I muse over a mug of tea, my churning brain contemplating issues of no consequence that I can’t flush. It’s no way to start the day.

Now it is the first day of July. 09:00 in the Morning. A flawless weather day with tepid breezes wafting in through the open window at my desk. The lemming race down on the highway is building already. Hurry up and relax. Now the first yacht leaves the anchorage, rushing home to see tonight’s fireworks and then be in the office tomorrow.

Who drank all the Cinzano? A golden morning in the anchorage. The yacht in the center is a Nordhaven 50 something, an enduring fantasy of mine.

Don’tcha buy no ugly boat. To this old salt’s eye this has not one nautical line. The side ports are all too low, there are no flags, no name, no home port. Some folks spend a lot to grab a little attention with no sense of seamanship.
(In my opinion)

After misadventures last year with my drone I’m battling with the insurance replacement unit which has sat in my closet all this time. I will admit I’ve been afraid to use the thing. Booting up the wee flying computer now has it asking questions which I’ve never seen before. Tektwits! Every electronic device seems determined to subjugate its operator. Facebook now demands that I wait for them to email me a password so I can finally open the account to read a message someone sent me. Then…they email me a query about me being active with passwords. WTF? YOU just sent them to me!

What the hell ever happened to simple old emails? Now everyone wants to use quack, twitter, squawk, fart, bleep and bark instead of going with what works. I refuse to be trendy especially if it requires downloading more apps that instantly scramble other enablements already lurking in my laptops dark brain.

My existence seems to be punctuated by moments of things with red wheels. When I was very young my father owned a 1938 Ford car. At that time it would have been 17 years old. I don’t remember rust but can see a gleaming dark blue car accented with chrome trim spotted with a bit of red paint. For example there were V8 emblems on the hood and red wheels with V8 logos on the hubcaps. I can certainly remember the warm aroma of the fabric interior. I have anecdotes about that vehicle and it is one of the few things from from my childhood I would love to see again. Another item from that era was my Werlich wagon. Werlich was a company in Preston Ontario which produced wooden items like toboggans and wagons. I don’t know who provided it to me but I loved it for many years.

I owned it before we moved from farm to town but that was where I really began to exploit its possibilities. I would kneel in it with my right leg and propel myself along the concrete side walks of the block around our house with my left foot. Mother could never work out why my left shoe was always so badly worn. We lived across Church Street from the fire hall and my world was the four sides of that block. I loved the firehall. I loved the clackety clack of the cracks in the sidewalk as I scooted along and steered with the tongue of the wagon folded back to work as a tiller. One day I swerved around a pedestrian and rammed a parking meter. Unbelievably, the meter’s lid popped open and a cascade of pennies and nickles rained into the bed of my wagon. Around the corner was the local pharmacy and confectionery. That wagon came home with a heap of candy. My parents were boggled. There was probably some sort of martial law applied, there was for nearly everything, I can’t recall, but it was a glorious day which I’ll always remember.

In later years, that wagon was used to deliver newspapers. Neither rain nor snow held me back as I delivered the Toronto Telegram. On Saturdays I had 120 customers and each thick paper could weigh up to 12 pounds. You can now find those antique wagons for sale on Ebay for stupendous prices. I still remember the dark wet and cold of late Saturday afternoon and the added misery of collecting payments. As an adult I’ve proven to be an abject failure as an entrepreneur so clearly I learned little from my early endeavours.

This a 1960 Vauxall Epic, some folks called them “Epidemics.” This one, remarkably free from rust has been turned into a hotrod with a small Chevy V8. I owned a 1957 version, a “Victor” which was even the same colour plus mucho rust. It was a horrible car.

As our daughter approached her 16^th birthday she began to campaign for a red Saab turbo convertible. I tried to describe my first car, a 1957 Vauxhall Victor. It was red and white and rust and rust. “Vauxhall? Wasn’t that some sort of vacuum cleaner?” I answered that indeed it had really sucked! Eventually she received a very basic Nissan Sentra which proved to be the most impossibly reliable car ever. It never quit, ever! “Dad…that piece-of-shit car you forced on me is broken down again.”

“You mean it’s out of gas again.”

“Well I put five dollars in last week!”

“And look, it’s out of water!”

“Water? C’mon!”

An old MG at last weekend’s car show. It is annual event, always on a brutally hot day with loads of rude people and self-appointed experts on the Britsh car.

A Jaguar XKE. Unless you cdan jack it up in the air and install big fat wheels, I don’t want it. I just wish I could afford it.

In the trunk of a 1950 Jaguar sedan. It doesn’t say much for the car’s reliability but also states that men were expected to have some basic mechanical knowledge. Many can’t even change a flat tire anymore.

The heat of the day drew a lingering aroma of leather car interiors.

I prefer the common man’s car. This Morris Minor is a lovely example. Still, they seldom came out of their tiny garage until the weekend. They were a hit in Canada for a while, then the Japanese cars took over.

You can’t have a British Car Show without an Austin Healy 3000.

We bought and moved to a lovely house last fall. The neighbour had one of those ubiquitous eternally closed garage doors. That, of course, excites a growing curiosity. Then one day this spring the door was open and there to my wondering eyes appeared one little red British sports car. A 1973 Triumph TR6. As a nostalgic old mechanic I soon found myself tinkering on it. I soon recalled that my love/hate relationship for old British cars requires accepting a curse that you are never done tinkering. A tune-up involves eternal adjustments, nothing is ever set forever.

6 cylinders, 2.5 litres.
A torqy wee bugger.

She’s beautiful but I’m a truck kinda guy.

However, this cherished relic does have a wonderful sound when it is running. That throaty roar is probably why so many people bought the things. This one also possesses a rare set of fully functional brakes. I don’t think I ever owned a British car which didn’t require pumping the brakes every stop. Getting in and out of the wee fliver is a challenge for this old dumpling. The foot pedals are ridiculously close together for my pair of boats, the seat does not adjust back far enough. It is not comfortable. I can’t drive it without one elbow hanging over the door. Frankly, after having known British cars, boats and aircraft it seems a requirement that nothing ever be comfortable. “Wot? Comfort? Naaw, we’re British!”

There is nearly always someone beaking away at the car with their usual vomit of testosterone-induced bullshit about their vast knowledge of British sport cars. That gets to be irritating. On a test drive, a Mazda MX-5 convertible pulled out ahead of me. “Wow,” I thought, “They sure don’t make them like they used to, thank God.” But then, being of British descent I understand that we are a race of masochists and that comfort is irrelevant to holding a cutting image. “Keep your pecker up” is an iconic British declaration. So is “Stay calm and carry on.”

My latest foray into wee red wheels is to acquire a 1981 Honda CT110 motorbike. That was built 2 years before my wife and I met. It was a beast with a whumping 110cc motor and a double range of gears which gives the rider 8 speeds. You can climb cliffs and pull stumps. There is a huge cult following of millions around the world. In Australia they were known as “Posties” for their long service there in the postal service. They must have worked well, Australian Post sold them all off. Crowds of delighted folks proudly own them now. There are parts available nearly everywhere. The little trekkers are still made, now sporting a 125cc motor and disc brakes but that old gearbox is gone. The old bikes hold their value often selling for more than when new. I feel like a bear on a roller skate in the saddle but it fits easily onto a rear bumper carrying rack and makes a perfect exploration vehicle for little jaunts into the back of beyond.

Bikers arent so tough when they’re on their own! You’ll hear me coming “Ring ding ding ding.”

An early ad fronm the 1960s. The rifle probably sold for more than the motorbike.

Fried Egg Flowers among the wild peas. I love blending wild flowers with domestic ones.

So, if you see a portly geezer wobbling down the road it is only me on a beer run. If the day comes when I’m whisking along on my electric scooter, chances are It’ll be red. There is already one in town lurching down the sidewalks and flying a Jolly Roger flag.

Geezers rule!

The ubiquitous light at the end of the tunnel.

“Don’t let yesterday take up too much of today.”—Will Rogers

Rusty Postie

I told my friends after suddenly losing their beloved dog that the next one would find them. There were doubts expressed that they’d ever have another dog. Along came Milo. He’s 11 weeks old, about 4 pounds and king of the heartbreakers. “Only love can break a heart, only love can mend it again.”About 250 metres below my office window runs the Vancouver Island Highway. It is also a part of the Trans Canada Highway. It is busy. My neighbour’s house obscures my harbour view but also blocks some of the din from the roadway. Amazingly a lot of the traffic is a huge number of motorcycles. You can’t mistake them. Some are the howling crotch rockets. Apparently, paramedics refer to their accidents as “donor cycle crashes.” Say no more. Another huge number of motorcycles are Harley Davidsons. Their blatant roar is unmistakable. For the last three nights, in the wee hours, one has passed at what sounds like full throttle. Its straight-pipe exhaust screams defiant blapping contempt. Every time, not far behind, comes the warbling woo-woo of a police siren. I don’t know the rest of this story but it sounds like someone is having fun. Perhaps the local donut shop is now open all night.

I’ll soon be out there giving those Harley folks a laugh. I have just purchased a 1981 Honda CT110 otherwise known as a Honda Trail. I know I’ll look like a bear on a roller skate. I don’t care. They have a tremedous reputation and are world famous. One even went around the world! In Australia they’re known as a “Postie.” That is because they were popular with the down under postal service. Imagine my bemusement when I came upon a YouTube video called “Rusty Postie.”

Little dogs have taught me that it is entirely noble to do big things with tiny friends. Boats too!

These are incredibly popular tiny motorcycles well-known around the world. Honda has sold millions of them. They first appeared in the 1960s and apart from larger engines now, they remain virtually unchanged. They started with a 70cc and are presently being sold with a raging 125 cc power. They are over-priced and supply is minimal. I’m told the new bikes just don’t compare to their ancestors mainly because their gear boxes have been changed. The old ones had a two speed transfer case which allowed the driver a choice of eight gears in all. I’ll soon find out if I can actually climb a vertical cliff with mine. They are delightful little machines, easy to handle and can go anywhere. They’ll get 100 mpg and can stretch up to speeds of 50 mph. That’s ample velocity for some fatal stupidity.

Maybe it was the sign but the trail seemed hard too find.

My wife has been away for the past few weeks. Our dogs have dulled into her absence. When she arrives there’ll be a circus of yelping, licking, peeing, twirling dances and every manner of woofing excitement. Their honest enthusiasm is always delightful. How I’d like to know that exuberance within myself once again. Meanwhile I’ve been heads-down at domestic chores in Jill’s absence. There was a plethora of little jobs around the house and yard including a new fence between the neighbours and our yard. Now that the moat is all dug out, I’ll flood it in the morning. Damn those summer water restrictions!

The bridge under troubled dogs. They were fascinated with the view.

Preparations for the new fence. Mexicans welcome.

A breath-taker in my front garden. I’ve learned that it is called a Hydrangea Bluebird, or serrata. I am much pleased.

A free tree in every nut. Some squirrel forgot where he buried his lunch.

I am not an enthusiastic gardener but have disciplined myself to plod away at it. One tiny joy was the ripening strawberries I’d nurtured. I decided to allow one more day of succulent red ripening to perfection. Then I’d freeze them. Some furry varmint ate every one overnight. God bless all his mangy critters. Allahu Akbar! They deserve more rights on this planet than I do but it is hard to accept. Meanwhile a truckload of gorgeous strawberry redness from Mexico has appeared in the local store for a exorbitant price but still below what my pathetic crop has cost per stolen berry. Well, I can still take drinking water for granted and I’m staying overweight.

Indian plums seem especially succulent this year.

The RVer. They poke around everywhere in the summer.

Things ain’t so bad!

“A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”

Jackie Robinson

On A Winter Day

Have you ever noticed that the coldest moments of the night come just at dawn? Frost will form just as the sun is about to appear. Sitting at my new desk and looking out over my neighbour’s roof to the harbour has repeatedly confirmed that this winter. It is 08:08, under a cloudless sky and it is happening again. I think I undestand the phenomenon but it is complicated to explain. And do we need to dissect every bit of life with science? We just need to understand that things happen and we don’t have to try to change anything. In fact, I enjoy a certain degree of mystery in the machinations of the universe.

How the human race manages to stumble on in spite of itself is amazing to me. I grasp that I’m jaded. I could easily come to believe that nice people are simply assholes who want something. It does seem that way somedays. However I know enough folks who can easily prove me wrong. Here I go but for the grace of a few charitable, loving souls. In the days I see ahead it is important to avoid close-ended political rhetoric. We will be demanded to choose a side and that is always dangerous. I prefer stealth tactics. A seasoned US journalist, David Cay Johnston, in his poltical comments about current events says that the reason we are in the mess we are is that fifty percent of North Americans are semi-literate or worse. When people dismiss the value of the cornerstone of their culture, language, they also dull their critical thinking skills. When folks don’t ask intelligent questions they fall into a mindset of herd instinct and unquestioning direction. I just cannot say baa.

‘Reborn’ She was apparently built in Scotland in the 1930s. This is a sad way to die.

Dogpatch, the bay of broken dreams. In a quest, or necessity, to live off-grid, some folks see buying an old boat as an easy answer. They cannot grasp that the price of freedom is responsibilty. Old boats are cheap because of the overwhelming burden of maintenance. Then comes a sinking feeling.

The independant. I admire this character. They are tidy, unobstrusive and apparently self-sufficient. No-one bothers them. It must be miserable under those plastic wraps in the morning but they soldier on through the winter. Kudo’s indeed.

So, once again I sit watching another clear-sky winter sunrise. It is only minus five outside the window but there is a damp cold I can feel in my bones. I don’t want to concede to anything geriatric but I do wonder if plaid blankets are warmest. “Oh lord I’m beggin’ you please, for a new set of glow plugs and if you can; spare me a pair of grease fittings for these creaky old knees!”

A few mornings on it is now snowing furiously. Think I’ll stay off the greasy roads and post this blog. It is so very peaceful.

Git ‘er done. After a two-day breakdown the crew finishes discharging their cargo as winter closes in.

It happens. For our few snowy days each year it is best to just stay home. Well-seasoned in the extremes of the Great White North I’ll stay off this coastal wet white grease and avoid other drivers who don’t know any better. I have nothing that needs proving.

Jill’s Flying Circus. I really don’t know which button I pushed by accident to achieve this effect. I’d sure like to find it again.

“ I have never once in my life seen a fanatic with a sense of humour.” Amos Oz

“Nothing is permanent in this wicked world-not even our troubles.”

Charlie Chaplin

For Aunt Florence

For Aunt Florence

(And the wonderful family I didn’t really know I had)

The family farm down in the Pipestone River Valley. This photo hangs in the hall by her door in the senior’s home where Aunt Florence now lives and is well-attended by three generations of descendants. I photographed that image. I’ve been there and it really is beautiful.

A view from Butler Hill Farm; yep that’s the same beautiful barn. My cousin divided his parent’s farm with a daughter and her husband. What a feeling it must be to carry on a family business and a tough but fine way of life.

Near the farm is the little community of Cromer and its church which is clearly dear to my aunt.

“Bringing in the sheaves” Auntie calls the emergency monitor around her neck her “cowbell.”

I have decided to post this blog in honour of my dear Aunt Florence with whom I have spent the past too few days visiting. Getting to know her, her sons, her grand children and great grand children has been very uplifting. I’ve learned much and am delighted in meeting family who are outstanding and all are people to be cherished. I hold my head a little higher.

A beautiful example of a stone house in downtown Virden Manitoba.

There was once a brickyard nearby. I am not, of course, showing the humbler clapboard homes on the same tree-lined streets. This one’s for sale, but let me tell you about the winters.

What would Virden be without the railway? Just another bit of prairie?

My other cousin’s house in Kenton MB. It is over a hundred years old but is solid, and very cosy and homey. I instantly loved it. He bought it for $10,000! It needed a few renovations but… he owns it. Outright!

Sadly it was time to go far too soon. Leaving Virden was not a happy event for me. I drove as far as Yorkton and then turned due North. I decide that while miles out of the way, after all that family business, I’ll probably never be back this way again. I’d better go and try find my mother’s childhood haunts. The scenery changed to scrub bush and swamps. I began to expect moose to leap out in front but I saw none. Finally, a few miles before the town of Hudson Bay farmland reappeared as a mixture of rolling fields and and forest interspersed with plenty of waterways. The area must be a hunter’s delight. It is beautiful to my eye. In the Co-op store I ask an old man if he’s lived here long. He nods, but when I ask if he knows anything about the Eldersley area he says he’s never heard of it. I explain that it is the next town down the road but he’s stumped. Now that’s parochial! Uhuh!

Weyerhauser has an OSB plant there and now on the road, logging trucks compete with all the grain and oil heavies. Roads in swampy land roll and pitch, driving require full concentration. I discover another damned flat tire on the trailer. I change it but cannot find a tire shop and decide to just go find a place to sleep for the night. I was stung on the shoulder yesterday by a tiny wasp. It is still swollen and painful, right up my neck as well, so a good night in the rack is just the ticket. I’ve found a clearing tucked back in the woods out of sight from the road. It has been a very long time since I’ve been in a black spruce forest like this. Short with thick limbs, a whole industry has been built around this forest which sprawls across the entire Canadian Shield.

Best logged in sub-zero temperatures, when the ground is frozen, they have several months of that here each year. It is no country for this old man anymore. But the mosquitoes still like me.

A prairie bush berry. Folks may call them soap berries. They make a lovely bit of colour within thickets of spruce trees.

The apex of my odyssey. The land adjacent is where the one-room school once stood. Nothing is forever but this marks where my moom and all ten of her siblings attended. no-one seemed to get beyond grade 4. Most proved to be clever people who went on to lead interesting lives. I asked a lady but she didn’t know a thing. It turns out her house is built on the ruins of the old schoolhouse.

I drive west and finally see a sign for Miners Creek. This is the site of the schoolhouse which the whole immediate family of my mother. My mother and all her brothers and sisters grew up in a homestead shack within walking distance. The nearest townsite is Eldersley. It is almost completely gone. A few miles west is Tisdale where I stopped for a new trailer tire. One geezer, when queried if he lived here long, replied that he was a newcomer. When pressed, he told mine that he’d only arrived in 1939! Another old fellow replied that he vaguely recalled the family name but nothing more. He did know about the old schoolhouse and confirmed that the site was now a farmer’s house and yard. My family mission was accomplished as far as possible. Home calls.

The Eldersley train station is long gone. I think the small elevator was there. I vaguely remember that from my last visit 69 years ago. My mother probably boarded the eastbound train to Toronto from here with a gleam in her eye. Guess I’m the result!

That old building sits beside the tracks and may be from my mother’s time so long ago. It looks as if there may have been a baseball field there at one time.

Miners Creek trickles on. Some day it will arrive at some ocean. The name remains a benchmark in my sense of family history.

Somewhere in a near radius of where I stood to take this photo is where my grandparents, and all their chidren, tried to carve a homestead farm out of the forest, one tree at a time. They did not know it couldn’t be done but perservered. It took the next generation, and the next, to find a foothold. Life goes on. When it rains, these dusty prairie roads become muddy trails the oldtimers call “gumbo.”

Tisdale. A priaire landmark. i don’t how old this water tower is but it marks what were the bright lights of town for the surrounding farmers. I’ve repeatedly heard a lot about going to Tisdale. I vaguely remember the broad main street of the old town. It wasn’t paved back then. While I waited for a new trailer tire, I ate at Tim Hortons, then headed west.

I should mention all the splendid photos I’ve had to drive by. Shoulders on prairie highways are narrow, steep and soft. It was too dangerous to stop and capture spectacular sights when dragging my trailer. Today finds me in a RV park just on the outskirts of Rosetown Saskatchewan. Morning light sifted through a heavy fog and I drifted back to sleep. I awakened to the music of snarling crop dusters taking off from the nearby airfield. I’m staying the whole day as the warm prairie wind rises now and begins to moan. It was a near-incessant sound which, apparently, drove some of the homesteaders insane. Others endured quite nicely.

A girl on a swing. Still looking good at 87. Her life as a prairie girl and farm wife (67 years) deserve a book. Wow! the things she knows! The hardships and triumphs and surrounding family leave me feeling humble and very, very proud. I love you all.

“At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.” ―Frida Kahlo.

Wounded Knee Rides Again

“Honey I felt the earth move!” The Hope Slide.”

I got up early to catch the ferry. With the wait in the terminal it took half a day to get across to mainland Canada. I spent the actual two hour crossing in my own dark, cool, comfy bed in my trailer. I have my own bathroom so there was no need to go to the upper decks for anything. What they don’t know won’t hurt them or me. The drive eastward was hell. With clear blue sky above It was hot and smoggy. The traffic was horrific as I drove through the murk. There is random construction. The roads were clogged both ways. Nearly everyone is a road warrior and recent gruesome fatalities on this highway slowed no-one.

A clever homebuilt expedition vehicle from Nevada. I had to stop. SWB, 4×4, diesel, someone smart fitted a trailer to the flat deck to make this beauty. Don’t laugh, she’s paid for!

So, finally I made it to Hope. Now all fuelled and grocery-ed up I’m parked in the bushes beneath the Hope slide. Odds are, all those car- sized boulders perched thousands of feet above me will stay put for one more night. If not, well it is meant to be and it probably won’t hurt a bit. I am just off the highway but well hidden. The flies are bitey friendly and it’s toasty warm (31C) but once it cools down I’ll go to bed in hope of an early start. My little truck clearly does not like dragging the trailer up long steep grades on a summer afternoon. Even the front fenders were too hot to touch.

Faces in the rocks above at the Hope Slide

My early start shuffles past eight o’clock. Rain spattered sweetly on the roof through the night. Now thunder rumbles and echoes between the towering cliffs above me. The purpose of this frivolous trip is to visit a dear old aunt in Manitoba. I am doing this on the generous means of my dear wife. I have to remind myself that I am to meander, there are no deadlines and I need to restore my soul which has suffered after two dreary years of death, illness, surgery and poverty. Just be, old man, just be and remember, how you once travelled with a backpack and your thumb. Best years ever. As for Jill, getting me the hell out of her face must be a reward on its own.

Forest fire smoke has proven to be a constant all the way across the prairies.

Yesterday’s inferno has passed for the moment. There were spatters of rain through the night and at the break of day it was gloriously chilly. I ( had hoped to drone the Hope Slide but the wind was gusting and there were squalls of rain, neither are good for the drone, especially at the hands of a rookie. I headed east and groaned up one long, steep grade after another. The engine wanted to overheat on each one and I stopped more than once to cool things down. The worst was the zigzag crawl up to Anarchist Summit from Osoyoos. All the day long the temperature was as hot as yesterday and thunder rumbled overhead. Finally, nearing Greenwood the truck began to steer oddly and once in town I discovered a nearly flat rear tire. I changed it myself as thunder-rain spat down. A lady stopped, but not to offer help. Her dog was missing. Gabby the collie had run off. I hope that girl is home safe and healthy.

The grind up from Osoyoos called Anarchist Hill. “Oh Lord, your hill is sooo big, and so is this damned trailer!”

Now in Grand Forks, I am parked in a large feral field beside a fleet of logging trucks. A young boy is riding his tiny motorbike, with training wheels, round and round in a cloud of dust. A friend tries to follow on a small electric John Deere tractor. I’ve been told that I can stay here by the folks at KAL Tire. I wheeled in there with my sick tire just before closing time and wholly expected to be told I’d need a new one. They could have, I wouldn’t have known. It was simply a bad valve stem. They refused to charge me. It follows that I inspected the other three tires and they need the same treatment. I’ll go back in there asking about the problem with being nice to a pain in the ass. Of course the answer is: they come back! I have a friend here whom I’ve known for fifty years. A visit is due. I already like this town and mucho kudos to the tire shop boys.

The next night finds me parked in a gravel pit beyond Yahk, which is not at all romantic as it sounds. My poor little truck staggered up the numerous long steep grades. If it were a mule it would be on its knees with tongue over shoulder. It is frustrating when you cannot go over 50kph whenever and wherever you’d like just like all the folks passing you at 140 kph. I just don’t want to cook my motor. There was a car and then a motor-home burned to a crisp along the roadside. I got the warning. Haste makes waste. In days past, even at my trundling speed it might have taken two weeks instead of two hours. From the top of the passes you can see valleys and mountains stretching into apparent infinity. The smoke adds a mystic touch to the scenes. It is still hard to grasp how big our single province is. There are all those others beyond. The grand thing was being able to smell the fragrance of the sub-alpine forest at the summits, those indelible aromas of balsam and spruce and buck brush that waft out into the summer air. There must be an air freshener called ‘Alpine.’ What memories those aromas bring!

You just never know what you’ll find. This delightful fusion of odd bits is in the lovely bakery in Greenwood.

In the morning it turns out I’ve backed into a spot on the edge of an impromptu fire-fighting depot. A helicopter comes and goes and I remember my heli-days so long ago. One whiff of jet exhaust and the clap of rotors brings so many recollections. That was me? In a single life?

Still a thrill for me. Helicopters have always amazed me and later ones are an incredible blend of technologies.

The day wears on. Leaving Cranbrook, a lovely spotted fawn suddenly appears in front and there’s no chance to stop. There is the expected sickening crunch and I bound out to have a look. The fawn has disappeared and truck in not damaged. It is not my fault but I feel sick for the rest of the day. I wonder what happening to this once great white hunter.

Finally at the Frank Slide, just into Alberta, I stop and get out the drone. This is where an entire half-mountain crumbled and buried the town of Frank. Itis horrific. I’d promised myself to make this my first good drone footage, so first a test scan. Out a hundred metres, up fifty then I press a wrong button. The drone lands instead of returning home. The last image I receive is a bleary view between rocks. I activate the “Find My Drone” and go hobbling down between the treacherous rocks with my cane. I slip and fall, loose my glasses, manage to retrieve them from a narrow crevice. By the time I clamber over to where I think my drone is, my controller has a message that says a rotor was jammed so the drone has shut off its power to prevent overheating. No more homing signal. Then came the return clamber, empty handed and feeling like a very stupid old man.

The Frank Slide. There is an entire little town, and its inhabitants, buried beneath that crumbled mountain.

I don’t know the story but it looked to me like part of a building sticking out of the massive lumps of rubble. Can you see my drone?

It is a place that leaves one completey humbled.

The limestone rocks are house-sized and smaller. Jagged, sharp, loose and dangerous it is no place for an old man with a walking stick.

Fortunately I’ve bought some insurance for just such an event but I do not feel any better. I was not employing my own advice about caution and certainly feel the diminished rookie.

Drive on old man, drive. Eastbound was a spectacular show of wondrous clouds, rainbursts, lightening, brilliant ladders of light between the clouds onto the foothills. They were all juxtaposed over columns of massive whirling windmills. I could not photograph any of it. The rocketing traffic made stopping too dangerous. Tonight I am parked on the side of the road at the former townsite of Whiskey Gap. It was a smuggler’s town in the 1930s. Now there are only cows bellowing from the ridge at the top of the coulee. A few miles back was a signboard noting the location of Aetna. But it’s not on the map either. This will be the norm I think.

In Fort McLeod. There’s a definite flavour of the old west.

In the Silver Grill. A Chinese menu with margaritas.

DRAW!
Downtown Fort McLeod on a Sunday evening. “Git his boots.”

And so I progress into the prairies. I will meander along the southern roads and explore the beauty of this vast and windy land. It’s a long way from the sea.

” A ship is safe in the harbour, but that’s not what ships are built for.”

Gael Attal

Droning On (Looking like an old man who’s lost his drone)

It’s gone. No doubt about. My first wee drone is buried in the jungle just above the beach. I know about where it is but I’ve looked for hours. Unless I know exactly where it is, there’s no hope. My bush-ape eyes are really good at seeing things in the wild but this little devil is about the size and colour of a fallen arbutus leaf. I could be three feet away and I not see the damned thing. There are millions of those leaves, the bushes and underbrush are thick and for all I know my little flying machine is stuck up in a tree. Damn me! I knew better.

The virgin drone pilot
“He sat on the edge of the field looking like an old man who had lost his drone.” A drone’s eye view of the nut holding the controls.

My home as seen from my drone. WOW! I live here!

I’m taking my expensive lessons and am turning them into something more valuable: what not to do! It is a bad habit I learned as a farm boy from a poor family. In an effort to save money I habitually go to what appears the cheapest route. Over a while, I end up spending far more than simply buying something good in the first place. It is said that to buy good clean fresh oats you must pay a fair price. Ones that have been through a horse cost slightly less. I thought I’d beaten the system by buying a slightly used virgin drone. Ha! The price of that is gone. There has been a lot of frustration and I have no drone. This behaviour is what keeps poor people poor. Buy one decent car every twenty years, or buy inferior ones before the last one is paid off. A quote I never seem to listen to is “If you can’t pay for it once, how will you pay for it twice.” Uhuh!

“I’ve got it up!” First flight of the new drone.

Drone School. I actually bought a copy of ‘Drones for Dummies’ The foam was my innovation to protect the control sticks and the screen.

Someone else’s toy. Prices start over $160,000 An Audi R8

With a V10 engine in the back seat there’s only room for two people. OK! No roof racks please.

I’ve since learned that the first one I’ve bought has a wee habit of zooming off on its own, especially in the hands of a rookie. So, I’ve been wandering around with a look in my eye like an old man who’s lost his drone. Thazme! I’ve now gone and bought a brand new one for a tremendously good sale price, too good to resist. It is a DJI Mini 3. This manufacturer seems to hold a lion’s share of the drone market. When I first turned on the controller a screen appeared entirely in Chinese. My heart sank. I did not know what to press next. I’ve persevered and now bought the manufacturers insurance in event of damage or “flyaway” loss. I’m progressing slowly and have to admit that I’m a bit frightened of screwing it up again. But, there is an excellent manual written in proper English and there are several online video tutorials which actually show you good things to know. This wee flying computer has amazing capabilities. Samples of video footage taken by this product are stunning and I am actually a bit excited.

Now get this. I’ve just watched a video that shows how to use the “Find my drone” feature. If I loose this expensive new puppy there is a mode which allows me to track down the lost bird by tracking it with an onboard GPS map and compass. There is also a button to push which activates an audio alarm in the drone. This klutz can’t ask for more. No it doesn’t work if underwater.

I’m determined to beat this flying brain. It may be artificial intelligence but it is smarter than my genuine stupidity. I am humbled but I am learning to trust its capabilities. In the meantime, I’ve posted my latest photo of a flower on my page on Fine Arts America. With over 700 images posted I am quite capable of posting my own descriptions. This time it wrote one for me in thirty seconds and was very articulate. Death of the writer approaches.

While watching a video taken in a Mexican dance hall I noted one lady twirling about in the arms of her partner. As they danced her mobile phone rested on his shoulder while she texted someone with an ubiquitous thumb. Really! I can’t help but wonder what happens when she’s making love! “ Honey look, they’re having a sale!”

No! We have not abolished slavery! Our world spirals on. Black hole or toilet bowel we have to stay away from the edge.

In the Age of the Almighty Computer, drones are the perfect warriors. They kill without remorse, obey without kidding around, and they never reveal the names of their masters.

Eduardo Galeano

Droning About

I call it a Gravel Cosmos. I don’t know what this amazing flower is really named but it amazes me. It is rooted in bone-dry, baking hot gravel. It sits beneath the blazing oven of a white stucco wall. Begs a question or two about life don’t you think?

drone the male of the honey-bee; someone who lives on the labour of others, like the drone-bee; a lazy, idle fellow; a deep-humming sound; a bass-pipe of a bagpipe; a pedal bass; the burden of a song; a monotonous speaker or speech; an aircraft piloted by remote control; to emit a monotonous humming sound; to talk at length in a monotonous or expressionless way; to say in such a tone. – Chambers Dictionary

Phew!

When I was a wee boy, very, very long ago there was one toy I coveted above all else. It was a little tin helicopter modelled after a Sikorsky S55. The real thing was a state-of-the-art heavy lift rotary wing aircraft. We had not yet begun to fit helicopters with turbine engines. This beast sported a massive radial pistion engine which thundered in the agony of overwork. By today’s standards, it was a club of a

thing barely able to lift much more than its own loaded weight, but it was what the world had. Anyway my toy appeared in both the Sears and Eaton’s Christmas catalogues. My heart burned.

The object of my intense desire was a small tin machine with a turning rotor on top. There was a long cable trailing out of its belly which ran to a small gearbox with a crank handle. If one spun the crank hard enough, the rotor would turn and the flying machine would rise into the air. To me, it was utter magic. I vaguely recall visiting someone at Christmas time and the boy of that house had just received one. All the toy did was fly the little bit that the driving/retaining cable allowed but it was my wildest fantasy. Imagination did the rest. I’m sure it would have soon broken, especially as I had a penchant for taking those tin toys apart. Metal tabs, gears, springs and adjoining bits never went back together properly. “Made in Hong Kong”, we’d sneer way back then. Ha! If only we knew!

The roundabout. If in fear or in doubt…put it in L for lurch and drive right over the bugger. Note the tire marks. In Europe these expedite traffic flow for millions of drivers daily. They seem to confuse many of us.

Almost seventy years later I have something unimaginably better. It is humbling me. To enhance my photo and video efforts I’ve finally acquired a small drone. There were too many wonderful exploration and travel videos for me to resist. Of course, everyone sells the best and the information soon becomes confusing. Transportation Departments rightly have a set of laws about the size, type, and purpose of drones. There are licenses and certificates, just like manned aircraft. These can be avoided by staying beneath a weight restriction of 250 grams. Many birds weigh more than that but then most bullets weigh less than that. These toys need to be operated responsibly. Who me?

I do have an old and very dusty pilot’s license, long unused, so I understand what not to do. Stay the hell away from any sort of airfield ( 3 miles) stay away from people or crowds, respect other’s privacy and always bear in mind what invasive, noisy and annoying wee machines these are. I have actually waved a shotgun myself at one that once hovered persistently over my boat.

As for operating one of these machines skilfully, well I’m a pilot. Right? Flying a helicopter can be described as rubbing your tummy and patting your head at the same time. Flying any aircraft correctly is decribed as ” Using your superior judgement to avoid situations which require superior skill.” That’s while you are inside the thing! Add a remote dimension from a varying distance outside. Drones are an amazing amalgamation of computer intelligence and miniature electronics all compressed into a package about the size of a small box of candy and…..are quite affordable. They are smarter than I am and I do question my own value in the modern world. Well, others have mastered the necessary skills, so will I. So far I’ve pruned a large maple tree and crashed into the middle of a blackberry patch. I have retrieved the drone, cleaned off the green smears and recharged the battery. There will be another dawn patrol.

It is the morning of yet another hot day. The dogs are already hunkered down. They know. Outside a murder of crows sing in their dry rasping voices in a chorus of foreboding. In the distance one mourning dove coos out supplications of calmness and I am instantly transported south to the desert where they thrive. I am always filled with longing for that land when I hear them. I have met folks here who hate their sound. I love it. But then while folks gasp about the heat there are thousands of these same people who pay big money in winter to go south for this very climate. A week ago these same characters were bitching about how cool the weather has been.

I’ll take it as it comes. What choice is there? I live in dread of the smell of smoke and choking orange skies. Maybe we should lock everyone out of our woodlands when the forests become so explosively volatile. I wouldn’t want some geek with his drone starting any trouble.

So…. I’ve booked a techno man to come and sort me and my drone out. At least then I can blame him. But I can’t now. I took the drone to the beach in the early morning light and cool calm air. I hovered it steadily and took a photo. Then I zoomed it up to a hundred feet and resumed hovering. That is when it took a dive into the trees behind me. Thwack! Finding a needle in a haystack has nothing on looking for drone burrowed into the forest. Smile damnit!

See! I could make it hover controlably enough for me to take a photo. Then it was gone.

Life is hell being a dinosaur

nothing makes sense anymore.

I won’t survive if I don’t evolve faster

but then maybe it’s best

if I continue to stay my own master.

Clickety Clack

(Nimrod’s Silver Chisel)

The old handle. It’s something I whittled out over dark and stormy nights in my boats. the ball bearing in the beak makes a good impression when necessary. The physiotherapist told me, in a room full of people, that I was using it wrong. WRONG!

Bummer! You should see the other guy! This is the back side of the new improved knee. Dead sexy! Photo by Jill, what she has endured to care for me is beyond any degree of love. Thank you!!!

This is what the knee feels like. Believe it or not, this was the main battery ground wire in my trailer. It severely overheated and it is a miracle that the trailer did not burn down. This cable was 2″ from the propane line. The cable was too light a guage and poorly fastened. I should have checked it months ago. Lucky guy!
ASSUME NOTHING.

Way back while working on the tugs I regularly sailed with an engineer I soon named “Clickety-Clack.” Lord he stank! He was a good engineer, even enthusiastic, but his personal hygiene was not a priority. There was a reason. As a boy, he was heading for a local fishing hole on his bike when the home-made pipe bomb in his pocket exploded. That he lived is amazing. Missing an arm, a leg and a few other body parts, he healed and soldiered on through life with a cheery optimism. The noise of his prosthetics could be heard over the incessant white din inside the tug. Showering with only one arm and leg would have had to have been a huge challenge, especially at sea.

“Clickety-Clack.” Now that noise is me. I am hobbling along behind one of those lightweight tubular contraptions called a “walker.” The Brits call them “Zimmers.” And so I remember a former shipmate. My knee replacement surgery is already a week past. I came home a day later and have lain through long hours, night and day for the last week in a narcotic haze and a welter of pain. I finally clattered out today simply to stand beneath open sky. It was glorious!

In position. Libby, the light of my life. How i have been smitten by this wee dog.

Jill loaded me into her car today and hauled me off to a favourite pub in Crofton. It was a perfect day, the weather was flawless. It felt especially so after being housebound for a full week. That’s just not my style. It is summer solstice and I’ll be out there. I’ve shed that damned walker for a home-made cane and I intend to able to hoof over the hill sooner than anyone expected. SPRISE!

Most communities like to describe their hospital as the worst ever. There is one on Vancouver Island, which in repeated experiences, has proven to be such a place, but it is certainly NOT Duncan. The building is old and a new one is under construction but the present hospital crew are wonderful. YES I said that, the old grump hisself. ALL, to the last person, convey a sense that they truly care. The worst thing was a sandwich. The day before surgery wore on, and it was well into the evening before I could ask for food. I was brought a limp sandwich made from two slices of white bread which clung to a thick grey smear of protein-like substance. It was labelled ”Beef Sandwich.” Yum! I took a breath and swallowed it down, thinking of all those folks in Gazza. Burp, fart, all’s well that ends. I was hungry. Isn’t it amazing? How do we go into a shit-brindle brown monster building wholly staffed with total strangers and those who deliberately render us unconcious then cut up our bodies to reconstruct them? Trust? When you are in pain and fear, the risks you’ll assume are beyond reason.

Vultures circled outside the surgery window.

The surgeon, named Nimrod Levy, (REALLY) worked his magic fingers on my old bones and I’ll soon be leaping over the outhouse once again. My pal Nim phoned three times to follow up his surgery! Yes, three! He is a great guy with an actual personality. It’s restored a bit of faith for me. After my major heart rebuild, there were never any calls. Ever. Enough said.

I now sit in my living room now with my leg jacked up and inside an ice machine. It’s on the summer solstice afternoon looking out through the dirty swirls on the glass door. I’d just bloody cleaned that into crystal sparkles two weeks ago. Funny how that goes.

How’d this character cross the road? I carried it. It was huge!

“ there is no better surgeon than one with many scars.” Spanish Proverb

New Adventures

Dark blue sails. A perfect tack into a perfect wind on gentle seas. Sitting on the beach, this old sailor’s heart aches.

I was leaving today. That was the plan. An important appointment out of the way, my birthday past, the open road beckoned and I would be gone, trailer and all. There is a dear old aunt in Manitoba whom deserves a visit and that shining idea has kept me going with something to look forward to. The borderlands of the Canadian Prairies are beautiful this time of year. Then the phone rang.

Finally, much to my surprise a date has been set for a knee replacement; June 20th. I was told “Perhaps in August” so yeehaw, there goes my summer. Maybe by sometime in August I’ll be out and about. I am not complaining, there are times when I want to take an axe to this throbbing horror so the notion of finally being rid of that incessant ten-pound toothache has great appeal. I know there is an ordeal of pain during the recovery that awaits me but all I see beyond that bridge is bluebirds and rainbows. UHUH! Ordeal or adventure; that attitude adjustment is entirely up to me.

Pipe birds. “Look at the pecker on that one!” The birds are sitting on wooden pipes four feet in diameter. They run for miles and supply water to the local pulp mill.

Meanwhile there’s a urine yeller peecup truck sitting in my garage. I’ve been thinking that I should take the rear brakes apart and have a look. I have not yet since buying it last fall. Thinking of towing a trailer almost half-way across Canader…. and being the former aircraft mechanic obsessed with preventive maintenance! Uhuh again. Then came a brake squeal and a clunking in one rear wheel. After beating the brake drums off I discovered a wonderland of black muck and rusted everything. Clearly the previous owner had regularly launched boats into the ocean. The brakes had been working wonderfully. How, I cannot explain. There is now black brake soot all over the garage floor and the knees of my coveralls. It’s all part of the familiar but with a knackered-up undercarriage and a lame hand everything takes longer than in the good old days. I clearly understand why old farts can be a bit cranky.

My liuttle shop of horrors; or is it a Taliban training center? Fortunately, nothing goes on forever. My strata neighbours loath me and my redneck ways. But, they don’t mind calling me to fix something for them! Almost all of them *are* nice people.

Then there’s the business of jobs like this and working with eye glasses. There is a challenge that comes when you’re humped over like a three-legged dog trying to fornicate with a greasy football. Your glasses, or goggles or spectacles, as you will, keep wanting to leap off your sweaty face. You grab them with one mucky paw and stuff them back into position but of course everything’s a blur now with goop on the lenses. Then the phone rings and you get an itch and then you have an urge to pee. The romance of it all, sweaty testicles. I meant spectacles, spectacles! After injuring my left hand in a motorcycle crash. My existence and survival have depended on that paw all my life. Now it is painful, weak and unreliable. All my days I’ve been life support for that hand and now it needs to retire.

The job is done, the brakes work well. Then a tree swerved in front of me.

No seriously, it’s all good. Then the handle for the engine hood release fell apart. It’s fixed. I checked online and a new electric Hummer is $131000. Plus tax! Think I’ll keep what I’ve got.

My wrench-bending days are coming to an end but I can appreciate other folk’s passions. I don’t know what make this car was once but it is NOT electric.

Just think, I was going to look for a copy of “ Do It Yourself Knee Replacement For Dummies” I’ve already got a meat saw and a hammer and chisel. It is truly wonderful what modern medicine can achieve. I’ve talked to folks who’ve had this procedure and they all describe it as worthwhile. So I take a breath and jump. I look forward to being able to walk confidently and explore beyond the end of the road. Head Bashed-In Wheelchair Jump.

Imagine the stories still held within this wee wooden rowboat. Feel the spring as wooden oars pull her forward and hear the gurgle of the passing sea water. Think of the loving hands that shaped her lines. There is nothing made in plastic to match it.

To get anywhere, all those wee legs have to work together. That’s a political lesson!

Got bugs. There were several of these nests one day. I can’t find a name for these pin-prick sized gangsters but I’ll bet they have a nasty bite.

Warm and fuzzy. Peace and serenity, a harmless wee pup. This mini daschund ( smaller than pictured) chased a black bear away a few days ago. Libby is 100% dog, in all ways.

Berry blooms in the rain. There is a deep slurping sound in the woods today.

Remember that a weed is just a flower someone else doesn’t like.

“The only disability in life is a bad attitude.” Scott Hamilton

Beer Moths and Behemoths

First the commercial:

Here’s a direct link to my photo portfolio on Fine Arts America.

https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/1-fred-bailey/shop/canvas+prints

There are over 700 hundred of my photo images for sale there. If you don’t want to buy anything, that’s cool but, with all the subjects covered, times the number of different presentations from mugs to shower curtains, there are thousands of gift possibilities. END COMMERCIAL MESSAGE

Grapes among the blackberries. It’s that season.

Also up among the blackberries. How incongruous!

September 3^rd. I’m still digesting the fact of life that we go on without Jimmy Buffet. It is not so much the man, but the idea of him and what he represented that puts us at the end of an era. We need positive people and the joy they spread.This year began with me still missing John Prine. I always will. Since then we have lost Tony Bennett, Sinead O’connor, Robbie Robinson, Gordon Lightfoot and now Jimmy B. I’ve probably forgotten someone.It’s a parade! All things pass, so shall we.

“HI mom, I’m home.” Indigenous people must have used this cave for shelter. Open and drafty, there’s room to build a fire and keep out of a winter rain. It would make for a long night though.

A room with a view…sort of. In fact it is a house=sized boulder sitting on top of others. There are plenty of tiny caves in the surrounding cliffs.

On the cave trail. Through the meadow, over the hill, down into the forest and around the mountain till you come to caves, all over the place. What’s that sound?

If you upset the neighbours they’ll drop things on you.

Cave hike 12 Click here for video Your guess is as good as mine!

Six doors down on our street a pub opened its doors last year. It was an instant success. I’ve never been able to sample their fare, they are too busy to get inside the place. Good for them. Yesterday they chose to host a wedding feast. The band struck up in mid-afternoon and the cacophany continued late into the evening. The streets were clogged with parked vehicles as the din of yodeling, screeching, thumping and twanging wore on. It did not sound very joyful. The dogs in the neighbourhood were as pissed off as their owners. Over the racket, our back alley nemesis could be heard bleating at her dog, “JOEY, ferfucksake shaddup!” Apparently this is how we celebrate marital bliss and hope. Are there any divorce shindigs?

When I was little folks would tie cans to their heavily decorated vehicles and drive around town in a procession while honking their horns. People would rush out to witness the spectacle. What a different world now! While the noisy festival ground on I tried watching a nature prgram about the Hebrides. It was narrated by the honey whisky voice of Ewan McGregor. In one segment he described the nesting of migratory swallows inside a whiskey distillery warehouse. The birds watched as men took annual samples from the barrels. It was explained that these barrels had been stored for ten generations of swallows. I thought the overlooked but obvious pun was hilarious.

The Jimmy Buffet corner of the church. Let there be light, let there be joy at
Saint Margarita’s

Tuesday after the long weekend. The world seems dreamy, languid. I remembered to slow to 30 kmph in the school zones. I didn’t see one child but there had to be a cop in the bushes somewhere. We’ve skidded all the way through summer and now we’re savouring the last sips from the bottom of the bottle. We may have a nice run right to the end of October but we know better than to take anything for granted.

I am certainly not. I am forcing myself to finish out this blog on my tablet. I terrifies me. I sit poking away and suddenly what I wrote skids off somewhere else. I poke away with my banana fingers trying to put things back in order, mystified at what I’ve done wrong. I am a true bog trotter and I have a hell of a time assimilating new technology. Artifical intellilligence perhaps but stupidity will always be real.. I’m not stupid, crazy perhaps, I’m just not prepareded to perform remote virtual brain surgery…through the rectum!

Snot funny! There’s a face in this tree and its nose is running. What a pitch!

One of the things that computers allow me to do is to travel the world without leaving my fat bastard’s chair. Vicarious travel is certainly no substitute for the real thing and I’m eternally eager to explore any road I’ve never been down before. Even if it’s an ugly road, there is something to be gained in the experience. Meanwhile I can simply enjoy meandering along the local back roads in reaql time, there are more than enough for a geezer on a motorcycle. A beer moth. I heard, or misheard that, while a fellow described a large motorbike, a behemouth. I’ll take it. I’m going beer mothing.

“We talk a lot about the five senses: vision, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. I would add one more…imagination.”
― Wes Adamson