Opinions and Philosophy Archives - Page 5 of 22

Hell On Wheels

The line up and say “Baa” queue. After getting up in the dark to catch a ferry to the mainland, all you want is a coffee. You join a lineup which goes half-way around the ship and shuffles along for an eternity to get some yuck breakfast on a tray and a papercup of hot bilgewater. Beats swimming!

I’ve been looking, and looking, for the right travel trailer. Of course I wanted a pristine flagship for the price of a worn-out child’s wagon. It is an enlightening experience. There are a lot of gold bricks hidden in those old boxes. If folks would dig them out our economy would be healed overnight. We all want the most for the least but I need simple warm, dry shelter big enough to stand in and lay down in with a spot to safely cook. Soggy floors, leaks repaired with paint, missing registration papers are all disqualifiers. I’m not prepared to pay new prices for something that is fifty years old and rotted out. I don’t care how much fun you’ve had in this in the past. I actually had a lady explain how she repaired a roof leak from inside with paint. Really! I didn’t inquire about the rest of the rig.

My BC Ferry share certificates are in the mail. Fuel surcharge? No comment.

Room with a view. After paying the fare for the trailer I decided to break the rules and stay inside it. I prentended I was on a cruise ship and this was my cabin.

I’ve sold off a bunch of stuff recently and am fed up with the response on MarketPlace, “Is it still available?” The only thing worse is the vendor replying with “Are you still interested?” No, I just thought I’d bother you. Now I’ve advertised my beloved Yamaha motorcycle, to see what the Gods ordain and there has been a string of dudes asking “Is it stll available? Would you be interested in trading for something along with some cash?” There is is no mention of what the “something” is and how much cash is in the pot. That is despite my ad’s warning not to ask if it is stll available. It leaves me wanting to speak explicit redneck. I guess you’ve just got to kiss a lot of toads before you find your frog. It’s tedious.

We know the average life span of an RV is about ten years. Ones older than that are often described as “Retro.” I don’t care how old they are. If they’ve been properly cared for they may be in better condition than newer ones. A photo of some old moss-covered relic keeled over in the blackberries just doesn’t float my boat. Some old motorhomes are advertised for less money than a trailer but if their structure is not filled with cancerous growths then they have a huge old engine with a gas line as big as your knee. I’ve foolishly wasted far too much money buying somebody else’s problem. Poverty begets poverty. I don’t need a major project.

Last weekend I burned off a 3/4 tank of gas to look at a trailer, which when I arrived was claimed to be just sold. They knew I was coming. Damn their teeth! Most interesting was a newer and much nicer trailer which had to be the one photographed to advertise the older unit. I then developed an interest in a trailer which was Australian-built but when I asked for an address to come see it, a deposit was demanded to “Hold” it for me. Communications ceased when I asked why all the photos of the trailer were taken in Australia. Hey mate, we don’t have many eucalyptus trees here.

Finally I found a cute little trailer far away in Chilliwack and off I went to the bustling mainland, furiously squeezing the piggy bank until its ribs began to crack. The trailer was the right size (19′), in good condition, had plenty of room, and I liked the family selling it. It now sits in my back yard. It is lovely and Jill likes it too. She helped make this possible. A bed we can sit up in, room to get around each other and plenty of storage space. We don’t need to step outside to change our mind. Mexico or bust, we just need a little more mordida. I’m usually alone on my adventures and this trailer is all I need. Home on the range!

Home on the range. Wow, you sure have to kiss a lot of toads before you find your frog!

It was full moon last night. It glowed down through a blanket of fog and now at 07:30 the sun is trying to illuminate our gloomy world. How I hate this time of year! The damp cold penetrates to your aching bones and the sun is setting shortly after it rose. At least I’m not living at a more northerly latitude anymore where sun light was at even more of a premium. We are having a drought at the moment and so there have been several clear sunny days. Our life-giving star becomes a curse with its harsh light seeming to be in your eyes no matter where you look. Pedestrians and vehicles appear suddenly out of the deep shadows. Curse or blessing, it is all about attitude.

Feral fog apples. A free worm in every one.

The dawn grudgingly yields to minimun dimness, time to roust the hibernating wee girl dogs and go make tracks in the frost. The day stayed gloomy with a penetrating damp chill. Then I sold my motorcycle. I love it and what it represents to me but I’m realizing that maybe I have to concede that age and all its old injuries have not left me the snappiest cracker in the box. I love the wind in my face and the acceleration that comes with the twist of the throttle. Risking a quick death is one issue, but laying in a hospital bed staring at a beige ceiling with a B747 wiring harness hooked to my smashed parts is another ordeal. I’ve had that adventure and I don’t want to repeat it. My long-suffering wife doesn’t deserve any more ordeals at my own hand, she’s endured enough already. I have learned that motorcycling in traffic is where you submit your fate totally to other drivers. Superior pilots use their superior judgement to avoid situations requiring their superior skill. Enough said. That’s how I got to this age, time to move on. But…bear in mind that simply walking down the street can be as dangerous as anything else. We have no control over our fellows.

I’ll miss this beauty. I truly had a short “head over heels” romance and now she’s gone. It is the story of a motorcycle which morphed into a trailer. I have plans for another wee bike.

Still they come. After a day or two at best, they’re gone until next year.

Fungi demonstrate the meaning of life. Whether we understand or not, life must go on.

Here I am at 03:30 pecking out my musings. It is two days past full moon, a time of month when I often cannot sleep. Outside, the opalescent gloom crushes down on the town as its light is reflected back from the fog. It’s a strange silent world out there, the sort of night where characters in fedoras and trenchcoats wander the echoing alleys in hard-soled shoes. Dawn seems an eternity away. I’ll post this sometime after that.

Another day goes by. Sometimes the business of just living can quickly fritter the whole day away. And so once again, here I am peering out into another bleak dawn. It’s garbage day again. I step out into the cold, cold grey damp of the morning fog. I say goodbye to a cherished pair of shoes, finally worn beyond hope. Ingloriously I tie the bag over them, another friend gone. Back inside, it is warm with the frangrance of coffee and a little dog happily wiggles around my feet. Here in Ladysmith, it is also the traditional day when all the downtown Christmas lights are turned on. Everyone turns goofy and they do things like driving around and around town celebrating the season with fire truck sirens screaming. The dogs love it! Uhuh. Oh how I’ve been waiting to say this: “BUMHUG!”

May your lights be bright and your nights filled with happiness, good health and something to look forward to.

“A man is a very small thing, and the night is very large and full of wonders.” – Lord Dunsany

Remembering

Cherry ree in a coal heap. a remnant of the glory days of coal mining and export. Environment was a world seldom used and misused.

Between the sea and the mountains. Burnaby, once a suburb of Vancouver has become another urban jungle.

November 11^th. We had a windstorm last night. Half our leaves are gone and the starkness of winter descends. I always say things about Remembrance Day that inflames someone. I’ll keep my pie-hole shut except to say that we really need a day to remember all the innocents who die in wars which are always about someone else’s greed, usually far away form the carnage. There is no-one standing to the haunting strains of the ‘Last Post’ and thinking of the thousands of children dying in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine and other places we’ve simply forgotten. There is no point in remembering anything about war if it is still not in the past tense.

You’re probably wondering why I called this meeting.

Lately we seem to worship the infinite possibilties of artificial intelligence. No-one wants to consider the overwhelming force of genuine stupidity and that we have not learned anything through the ages. Our weapons may have evolved but our penchant for cruelty and destruction remains immense. Frankly my perspective leads me to feel that the war-dead, military and civilian, are the lucky ones. Their pain is over. It is the survivors who carry immense burdens for the rest of their days that we the ignorant elite cannot comprehend. It is also part of my silent rage that the Americans must have a finger in every pie. I understand that they truly believe they offer help but goddamnit! Stay home and clean up your own mess. Maybe a lot of the world’s troubles would disappear if you retracted your missionary compulsion to make everything just like home.

I’ll keep my uninformed opions to myself. There is no media source which is trustworthy, there doesn’t even seem to be concern about using language correctly. “No doubt eh?” (Yes really) You have to put together the pieces of conjecture to arrive at a vague overview of the approximate truth. Every time I have had firsthand experience with an event which the media covered, their account left me rather mystified about what they are talking about. But today of all days, when our noble savages who went to the other side of the planet to “Defend democracy” are touted as heros, and we see images of wide-eyed traumatized children huddling in the rubble of Gaza… don’t you want to ask a few questions? Then, after all the lip service and horn blowing, think of how many of our vets are treated so poorly. It is bullshit!

It is a sunny morning, most unusual for November eleventh. I remember standing in a military uniform at various cenotaphs, always in the cold pouring rain, listening to trumpet solos and some medal-chested geezer droning on with cliche sentiments. I don’t intend disrespect but do wish folks would peek out from under their blinkers and try to grasp a bigger picture.

Another fine day. Nanaimo in the autmn sun.

The dogs are asleep in their wee beds and I’ve been perusing advertising as I look for a small travel trailer. Folks, if you really want to sell something put some basic information up front. Make, year, length and please lay off the bullshit. “No leaks in roof but four walls are water damaged.” I see! There is a venerable wooden tugboat, now a liveaboard, being advertised as “Lovingly restored above the waterline but needs some work below.” Uhuh. That’s nice.

A head of its time. The tasty tidbit, a long way from the stream is proably being enjoyed for supper at this moment.

Here today, gone tomorrow; a lot like us.

This delicate beauty looked edible to me. But I didn’t.

November 12^th dawns grudgingly. It is bleak, grey and slimy damp. Life stumbles on. My knee which awaits replacing throbbs mericilessly like a ten-pound toothache. It is amazing how that seems to suck the energy out of a body. I remember the grumpy old folks of my youth and finally, I get it. Still, today is the only day available and we may as well make the most of it. The dogs knows only how to live in the moment and they want to go for a walk; NOW.

This damned leaf leaves me feeling awfully tiny.

And now, on the 15^th, I’m getting around to posting this blog. Life gets in the way at times. I’ve had time to think about what I’m saying and I’ll stand by every word. So there!

Out of ballast, heading for a cargo. “The same mystery which floats a vessel in a fathom of water, provides bouyancy in a thousand.”

“War does not determine who is right – only who is left.” Bertrand Russell

Refuge

Well we was down about the old 55 board. That was still a long walk to Victoria but then we heard a whistle in the distance and the tracks began to hum.

Admit it or not, nearly everyone has a secret place in their mind where they can hide away. I have two places where I may retreat in times of extreme emotional or physical pain. They are both in my imagination. Through the years I have developed those fantasies when I need them. They can become as real as the desk where I am sitting. Think, for example, of laying in a dentist’s chair. I hate that simple act of submission let alone the tools and apparatus employed. For me, the loss of control is harder than the pain to deal with. I want to be anywhere else; and so I go.

I so wish I knew the name of these hardy beauties. They’ve been blooming since the intense heat of late August. Now we have the dank dreariness of November. They appear to be delicate but they keep on proving their cheer.

One is about warm, green translucent sea water sluicing through the skuppers of a beautiful sailing boat. There are teak decks and humming rigging. An ensign cracks happily in a fragrant breeze. The boat heels on a starboard tack and that canted deck plunges into the crests of waves. The sandy beach lays dangerously close downwind yet I have a light and steady grasp on the helm and I feel superbly in control. Palm trees wave in the shore breeze and nothing else exists to cloud my mind. I can sail like that all day and sometimes pull myself out of a successful trance with reluctance. And so I endure an ordeal in that dentist’s chair or similar spot of hell.

At other times, usually when having difficulty falling asleep, I put myself in a tiny log cabin. It’s old but sound. The logs are recently chinked and there’s a rough plank floor. A comfortable bunk is built against one wall, big enough for a man and a dog. On the opposite side is a small but heavy door and one tiny window. A stove used for cooking and heating sits beside the bed and provides the only light inside. There are some fruit box shelves, a small wooden table with two chairs. It is minimal but snug.

In that fantasy a severe winter blizzard moans outside. Snow drifts against and over the cabin and despite the stout walls, tiny tendrils of the blasting wind make it in through the walls. I nestle in the bed beneath a thick wool blanket, with a furry companion curled beside me. The heap of embers in the stove beside me pops and shifts. Its warmth defies the singing wind outside which drives rasping billows of snow over the cabin. I am secure and want to stay forever. Many nights in my real world, that cabin is where I go when sleep comes hard.

Ginko gold by my front door. Soon a frost and a wind will take the leaves. Bare prehistoric limbs will sleep ’til late spring.

G’mornin! An autumn freshet in Haslam Creek heralds the return of the salmon.

I’ve heard that if you swim up that wee stream you’ll never be seen again.

As I write this I look outside where a scum of grey slush covers everything. October twenty-fifth in Ladysmith where only a few weeks ago some folks were still whinging about the heat. We’ve had a horrific front bring a day of torrential rain, now this. A weather girl in a tight skirt will tell us about an “atmospheric river.” I have other names. There are only four or five months of this ahead. The following night we’ve had our first frost and it’s frozen hard. I know, I’ve just put the garbage out. Now doggies and I will head out upon the boggy moor and do our daily patrol. At the moment they are curled up together by the fireplace and who am I to tamper with a tender moment? We have a few sunny days ahead in the forecast and nobody is shooting at us; yet. Life is good.

Two weeks have passed. After my incident on my motorcycle I have not felt very frisky. The grey weather has not inspired much photography. My days have not been eventful and one hand has been too jammed up to even poke at this computer. But we move on. A few days ago I sold my little old car. The price was two thousand dollars and when the new owner went to register it and pay sales tax she was told that it was worth three thousand and that was the amount she would pay tax on. Well, we live in Canada and so far as I know, at the least we’re still free to leave. Last night I attended a local municipal council meeting. Good grief! There’s another blog in that story.

The following quote came from a photo taken by friends exploring in South Africa. To be truly free is about much more than just ourselves.

“To be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” Nelson Mandela

What’re The Odds?

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

No bells. Next summer seems so far away.

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

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

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

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

You never know what’s around the next corner.

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

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

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

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

Busted. Dunno, thought he went your way.

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

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

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

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

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

Strong Opinions

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.

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.

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.

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

Blue Moon

Twelve yachts sail out into a smoky day.

I did not get a photo. I was laughing too hard. He was a brawny four pounder, four inches across at the shoulders, bristle-faced with two gleaming black eyes. Jill and I have each been awake half the night trying remember his name but we can’t. (Recalling our own names can be a challenge.) It was lugubrious and meant something like unconquerable. What was truly amazing about this wee beast was how he peed. He stood up on his front legs, extended his little pinky and squirted away. How he avoided soaking himself is another trick. We both saw it. Is this an evolution of simply cocking a leg? Is it a provocation of his name?

A little research says that it is not that uncommon. It is a little dog’s attempt to “overmark” other dog’s pee mail. No big deal and come to think of it, a huge number of humans do the same same thing, at least figuratively. Everything is a pissing contest for some folks as they try to compensate for a sense of inadequacy. We do tend to wet our own knitting all too often.

Temperatures in Ladysmith lately have risen to the mid-thirties. Funny what happens in August. It IS very, very dry and the usual summer westerly wind is howling. I’m terrified of what can happen if there’s one fool smoking a joint in the bushes. Yes it actually keeps me awake. Our Volunteer Fire Department Emergency call-out siren blows regularly. I’ve helped fight forest fires and there is no romance in any of it. With the present winds any flame will become a monstrous blowtourch that nobody can outrun or control. There is a campfire ban for the whole province, I think no-one should be allowed into the woods, anywhere. I suppose the BC Ferry campgrounds are safe enough, all the trees were cut down long ago.

The smoke thickens. It seems half of the interior in BC is ablaze. The smoke has settled over us here on the coast thickly, one can even taste it. I’ll keep my own opinions to myself and hope desperately that no runaway fires burst out here on Vancouver Island. Further to the south, Mexico has been hit from the Pacific by Hurricane Hilary. There is extreme flooding. My beloved Barb’s Dog Rescue, presently caring for four hundred dogs has had its decrepit electrical system wiped out. They can’t even pump drinking water at present. They’re desperately reaching out for any help folks can offer. It’s a perfect time to win a lottery. One of my joys would be helping certain folks out… and telling others where to go.

Does this remind you of anyone? Amazing grain in a maple log on the river side.

A tree springing up from its nurse stump, unfortunately it is not well-rooted.

Nor this one…you’ve got to be well-rooted.

Sniffing among the fallen. Leaves not making a contribution to the tree, are soon cast off. Yep, another tree metaphor. Nature has no welfare system.

I cannot explain it. I am by nature a creative character; I can make a mess of anything. I do like what I can do with my writing and my cameras but this year I’ve had a hard time forcing myself to make videos. I find that work very challenging and my technical abilities remain primitive. Nevertheless I’ve put this effort together:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDvfJzhPlCM

I hope you like it and I would love any comments and suggestions. I watch a lot of travel vlogs on YouTube and feel inclined to bend that way. I’ll start with routes and back roads locally. So there, now I’ve posted a commitment and I’d better get out there. Have scooter-cycle, will ride.

MY territory, GO AWAY! This suddenly leapt out at me, after I stood chatting about six feet away. It’s Coast Salish but somehow reminds me of Lahaina. What’s happened to that story?

I should mention that I have not heard a lot of whinging about the heat this summer. That seems most unusual. Perhaps with all the press about our province-wide wild fire devastation we all realize how fragile our existence really is. One flipped cigarette butt and we could face a horrible doom. Life is that close to the edge. The streams are all running dry and we are only mid-way through summer. But then, think of all the other places we could be living. There is nothing we need or want that we cannot take for granted. And so far, we are still free to leave. So far we can still feel safe flying in Canada in our own private jet.

What’s wrong with this picture? Once famous, this ferrocement ketch was designed, built and sailed by John Sampson. He has passed on and this boat is clearly no longer cherished. To leave a mast unproperly stayed is an invitation for serious collateral damage. This old sailor is upset. Her name is ‘StormStrutter’ and was once a beloved home which traveled far and wide for many years.

By the way, it’s a blue moon month (Two full moons in one month) Thursday the 31^st, last day of the month. Be on the highest local peak for the moonrise, just bring your dancing boots and don’t worry about what to wear. Get naked!

The swimming hole.
Every summer needs one.

‘There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.’ George Carlin

Dry Blood

A stunner. I found this in the garden of a Thai restaurant we love.

I’ve mentioned before that the original intent of this blog was to describe my travels; ocean voyages, desert treks, new discoveries and all the amazing people along the way. It just hasn’t worked out due to an incredible inability to raise funds. There was a time when it seemed that money just happened. I don’t know how things have changed other than not being able to work at a regular job but there’s still lots of money around, it just seems to be in soft pink little mitts that have never even had a callus. I can hear a good friend who often rages about all “The non-producers.” He’s right! Working smart? What’s that?

The Morden Mine head rig. The concrete was recently repaired. It will stand as a monument to the greed which developed this area.

Another industry. Don’t throw any rocks! The instinctive engineering skills of wasps and bees is amazing, just don’t get too close. In fact, buzz off!

Buzz on! Load up and then back to the hive. Blackberry blooms will continue for several weeks, and interesting survival strategy.

Carpenter Ants. The sawdust is the giveaway. If you listen carefully, you can hear their tiny power tools.

I’m not complaining (Well just a little) just explaining, and I continue to poke into the mundane and daily humdrums to find things to write about. There are some amazing treasures which we walk right by. Isn’t it funny how memories can be triggered by something totally innocuous? I was sitting at this desk while my wife watched a favourite BBC production. One character’s line was simply “Pass the pepper please.” I’ve always liked peppery food. Suddenly I recalled how as a small boy my parents and other adults at a dinner table would often caution me, “Not too much pepper, it’ll make your blood dry up!” Where the hell did that one come from? I’ve done my research and find no origin of that myth. I clearly remember hearing it often. Surely there must be other food notions that we endured. Do you have any?

I’ve spent years wondering why I never saw Kenny. I thought he must be a little dog. So i finally asked.

The other eating terror I recall was about swimming after eating. My mother believed that if, after eating, a person entered water too soon, they would endure crippling stomach cramps and drown. When my parents moved to town a point of order was to enroll me for swimming lessons at the local pool. I can recall the acrid taste and smell of chlorine, the biting cold of the water, the incessant whistles of those goddamned lifeguards. In a few horrible lessons I was taught all the many ways to drown (although there was no mention about when not to eat.) I held a deep terror of swimming for the next twenty years. That kept me alive by keeping me out of the water although I did become an avid canoeist! Only when taking scuba lessons did I realize how much weight one needed to strap to their body to actually sink. We’re naturally buoyant! If you’re tense, you’ll sink. Just relax. Putting on a good layer of fat helps too!

My little dog Arye is a very intense creature. If there is something she does not like, it is not going to happen. She’ll remember and a repeat attempt at coercing her into anything usually fails. Recently I tried clipping her toe nails. I managed two before her frantic struggles and screams ended the ordeal. She is a wonderful dramatic actor and this was a stellar performance. Later that day, the clippers ended up on the floor where Arye was seen inspecting them thoroughly. She then picked them up and trotted off to hide them under a bed. Clever wee bitch! I can’t imagine what I need to do about those little claws without having to anaesthetize her. I’ve come to dearly love both my wee inherited dogs. I insist they both be dogs, none of that fuu-fuu-la-la business for me, but it seems that big dog solutions don’t always work. I’m open to suggestions about this ten-pound beast.

What the girls were watching. Perhaps they were pondering the age-old question about why the chicken crossed the road.

Warm and fuzzy. What’s better for the soul than two cute wee dogs on a pile of warm laundry?

I have always been bemused by the roof-top cargo boxes which many folks attach to their car roofs. I see a sarcophagus shape and makes jokes about why people want to haul a dead relative around. Recently I saw a brief story about an English couple returning home from France and finding that someone was trying to smuggle themselves in a rooftop luggage box. These folks tied the box lid with a rope and called the police. My sympathies, of course, are with the illegal immigrant. There were other videos of the same practice and now whenever I see another roof box hurtling along, I see more immigrants.

Flotsam. How did this end up at the high water line? I think it’s part of the drive system of an old gillnet drum, but how the hell did it arrive here?

Maple Street long view. I love this moment in time on a Chemainus street by the sea.

Two nights ago Jill and I went to our favourite local Thai restaurant in Chemainus, It is superb in all ways, the food and service are always perfect. It is in an old house with a lovely verandah for outdoor dining, a grand place to have a summer supper. Another couple came to the next table. They proceeded to loudly analysis the menu for the next twenty minutes. “Well if you have a twelve then I’ll try the nineteen.” Finally the proprietor was able to take their order. The conversation evolved. “ I sure hope it’s a good vegetable roll, haven’t had a good vegetable roll in a long time!” A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste and I so wanted to say something loudly about a roll in the garden. Down boy, down! Their chat had moved on to discussing friends. “She sure is kinda purty though she’s a bit wide for her length.” Uhuh. I went and photographed flowers in the garden while waiting for our food. Lord knows what folks say about things I tend to spout and how I behave.

And so there… another blog about not very much at all. Just like the six o’clock news!

I’m not saying I want it, but I sure do admire it. The view is great. It must belong to some humble writer-type. I can imagine sitting with a pot of coffee watching the sun rise over the Gulf Islands.

What I can afford. Arye wonders where her room is. Every summer young engineers erect some very dangerous-looking driftwood structures.

“In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.”

Theodore Roosevelt

Down

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.

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.

“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

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.

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