People Archives - Page 5 of 20 - bc-bog-trotter.com

A Quick Trip

Heading out. The view from my Astoria motel room. Sliding under the Columbia River Bridge, within the hour she’ll be over the Columbia Bar, will have dropped off her pilot and be setting a heading for somewhere in Asia. Magic! The white exhaust means she’s switching over to burn Bunker C, a thick, toxic fuel oil which is much cheaper to burn.

The bogman goes to town. Astoria is a fascinating town to visit, with shops, restaurants, architecture and scenery which should interest everyone.

I can only guess the rest of the story. Astoria, like most Westcoast communities has its share of dead-end stories. I don’t think this was one, vbut there was no sign of happiness here.

February 28^th sees a torrential rain with dire warnings for the whole day. I messed around until noon, waiting for the rain to ease before taking my two wee dogs out for their daily walk. They waited patiently. When I was finally getting ready to go, I discovered a very neat dogpile on the floor in front of the toilet. Now that’s a clear, simple political statement. Dogs can teach us so much!

Local talent. Roosevelt elk are indigenous. At Fort Smith they provide an organic solution for cutting and fertilizing the lawns.

Coffee Blues. Buildings are painted boldly in Astoria, there’s a taste in cuisine and music for everyone.

This forepeak will never go to sea again. The old hull has some fine lines, but no living thing goes on forever.

Home, Sour home. Someone’s shelter. The garbage seethed with fat, brown rats.

Little boxes. No more buzzing in the crossed wires.

Mechano Spawn. The art galleries are fabulous. I could have spent thousands.

I’m home again after a grand weekend in Astoria at the annual Fisher Poets gathering in Astoria. From Ladysmith it is a three hundred mile drive plus a twenty-five mile ferry ride. All went well, my readings were well-received, I was MC at one event and met up with old friends and new. Astoria is a delightful town and my one regret, as usual, is heading home again so soon.The weather, for once, was decent, but Highway 101 south of the town named Forks, has deteriorated badly, so with ferry connections the trip is the best part of a day each way.

Retro town. The cherished architecture of Astoria is grand.

An old railcar is slowly recycling itself.

Wanna buy some good used chain? Each link is about 10″ long.

Dennis performs. He’s hilarious! The event has grown to present over 100 readers and musicians.

Doreen is in her nineties. She’s eloquent, fresh and feisty. Many of the younger performers are also incredible.

I stop to talk with pretty girls. This is Stella.

Astoria has several excellent Mexican restaurants, ‘El Jarrocho’ is the newest and is fantastic.

Hung by the river. Some old rigging from days gone by. The pigeons love it.

I wannit! Left-hand steering; an ultimate 4×4 truck.

The line. Ships anchor in the Columbia River to take on cargos as far inland as Idaho.

“Skipper, I see fish.”
A rare find, a new fishing boat under construction. The openings are for a bulb-bow and a bow thruster.

The two pm ferry trip back to Victoria meant I had to leave my Astoria motel by 06:30 and arrived in Port Angeles 6 hour later after an intense drive. That’s when the fun began. The boat did not have a large load but it would prove to be a memorable trip, especially for all those not of nautical experience. All the way from the Oregon border (Columbia River) I had been chased by an advancing cold front. Gusting blasts of wind and a heavy cold rain hounded me up the twisting route. Now it was arriving at the Strait of Juan De Fuca. Tugboaters know it as “Wanna Puka.”

The Coho swings in for a stern-to landing in Port Angeles. It was poetry in motion.

This cable layer was laying at anchor facing east. Then the squall-line hit. She abruptly swung 180 degrees and settled in for the blow about a half mile from where she’d been. You can see that she’s actually heeling to a big blast of wind.

The spit at Port Angeles which shelters the bay, and the open strait beyond.

Salt water window wash. Perhaps this little girl will always remember her ride.

A fierce westerly hit the bay at Port Angeles. There were no large waves but a suddenly a flat foam raced across the ocean’s surface. A small sloop with its genoa out took a serious schooling. I went to the front of the boat and took my photos and video early. I knew what was coming and did my best to keep my smirks to myself. I know the ‘M.V.Coho’ as the stout and seaworthy ship she is. Outside the buoy on the spit the plunging and rolling began. It is amazing how quickly large seas can build, especially when an ebbing tide slams into a gusting thirty knot breeze. Within minutes the passengers were practicing their silly walks, clinging to anything apparently solid. Some made their way to the front windows which were now regularly covered in inches of sea water blowing over the bow. One twit decided it would be manly to go stand at the forward flagstaff and show the world how daring he was. Fool! Most of the water was going over his head but one errant lump would have taken him overboard without a trace. I was not going out to tell him so and clearly neither were any of the crew. Those inside he thought was posing for also saw him as an idiot.

Four more goofs joined him but were soon back inside, soaking wet and hypothermic. Other passengers gave them a wide birth. Meanwhile, the stewards went around with armloads of sick sacks. Theyv’e clearly seen it all before. If you close your eyes and remember Julie Andrews singing, hear the revised lyrics: “The decks were alive with the sound of puking.” Kansas, or wherever these folks came from, will never be the same again. They’re smarter now. It is not a recommended weight lose program. This old salt wedged himself into a corner and had a nap through the mayhem. I was at home. Aaaaar Billy!

The old boat, with her keel laid in 1959, is a marvelous sea boat, completely at ease in heavy weather and never has crippling maintenance issues. I dare to guess, that with the proper maintenance she clearly gets, she may be only at mid-life. She is owned by the Blackball Ferry Line and so far as I know, is a private business with no grants or subsidies. I wish BC Ferries, a crown corporation, would have a look at how things can be done. They, whenever the wind rises above a seagull fart, tie up the fleet and constipate coastal highway traffic massively, sometimes for days.

“Thank you for sailing BC Ferries.” As if we had a choice! Now imagine if we also had to pass through customs and immigration at BC Ferry terminals. Two of our vessels were built in Europe and of course delivered here on their own keels. Surely they can handle the Strait Of Georgia. It can get darned rough, but not like Juan De Fuca.

“Traffic, Starboard bow.” Both ships followed the book of course and all was well. Cameras have a way of making waves look much smaller. This wall of water was about twelve feet tall. You know it is blowing seriously when the wind is shaving the top of the waves.

Last Sunday, the old ‘Coho’ kissed the dock three minutes late. Guided ashore prompty, I cleared customs and was home in little over an hour. Simple.

“The unavoidable price of reliability is simplicity.”– Tony Hoare

(It follows that whenever government becomes involved, simplicity, and so reliabilty, vanishes.)

Survival

Silently it flew up fron the ground in front of me. The Barred Owl sat motionless and soundless in the dim light. I always feel honoured to see one.

The first thing I do in the morning is check myself for bed sores. Damn, I’ve sure sleep a lot this winter! My little dogs have taught me well. “Eat it, hump it, pee on it, have a nap;” not necessarily in that order. Hibernation is a cheap way of passing the winter. Jill and I sleep separately, in opposite ends of our home. Fair enough, no woman should have to endure all that snoring and farting. Each dog has chosen who they sleep with and hunker down in their own little bed. They usually get up around first light, go outside briefly then trade beds. They finally rise long after we have and then go to their day beds in the living room. They’re tiny and can insert themselves into obscure spots with a genius for rolling up in a blanket and becoming invisible. A person has to be careful where they sit and learn to check where they land their bottom.

What’s more poignant than the fading glory of a flower. Any natural colour at this time of year is precious.

After the debacle with the Ladysmith Maritime Society I try to keep my head down. I know I have less sleeps ahead of me than behind and I’m not going to waste them peeing up any ropes. Friends send me headlines from around the province. In the lovely town of Powell River there is a proposal from the local First Nations to change the community’s name. A majority of folks are opposed. One of those citizens, born and raised there and who has served that area as a paramedic for 38 years, raised his voice, along with a large percent of the population, in support of keeping the original community name. He was fired from his job by the BC Ambulance Service, accused of posing a “threat “ to local indigenous folks! WHAT? What I find really stunning is that this story broke on the pages of the New Westminster Times. It has not appeared, so far as I know, in any of our other major provincial news sources.

A Ladysmith morning. This self-dumping log barge has a ahng-up but the decks were soon cleared. The massive tug and barge were off to a logging operation upcoast for another piece of forest.

That ambiguity is what concerns me. The streets should be filled with angry protestors. Complacency to some very disturbing trends terrifies me. In Pender Harbour, the local First Nations are working on a proposal, underscored once again by the Provincial Government, to force people to remove their private docks from waterfront properties. In the Kootenays, a reclaimation of native lands could see 95% of all BC crown land turned over to First Nations. All I will say is that this old fart is damned tired of being stuffed into a pigeon hole called “Last Nations.” If folks continue to sit around saying and doing nothing but grumble you’ll get what you deserve. Write a letter at least, put your name on it! The Provincial Government appears to have a secret agenda, our First Nations people are merely a pawn in a bigger game.

Rock Pock. It’s always a joy to walk the sandstone beaches.

In a few days I will travel to Astoria, Oregon to participate in the annual Fisher Poets Gathering. It’s the first time I’ve been there since Covid hit. I’m really looking forward to meeting with old friends and sharing our creative efforts. You might find fisherpoets.org interesting and we’d love to see you there. I’d love to have someone ride shotgun with me on the drive down and back. It’s a delightful weekend in a delightful town. It’s a nice drive too.

I’ve finally spliced together some video bits into a short YouTube clip. It’s very short and hopefully a bit funny https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teFBzolIbGk

I’m really intigued with the process of vlogging and want to develop those skills. So be warned. In the meantime stay out of the bight and don’t let the bastards grind you down.

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” Mae West

A Celebration Of The Homeless

Christmas Pickins’
He’s my favourite decoration

He shuffled out of the bedroom and said, “I’ve got two stiffies this morning.”

“You what?” She responded, “A tooth fitting!?”

“ No, no, my knees!”

That’s a real story. It occurred a few minutes ago right in this room. This getting old has its moments. Thankfully I’m still alive enough to have a sense of humour. When that’s gone, so too will I be. Today is the 21^st, the shortest daylight hours of the year. The official solstice is at 01:27 UTC tomorrow morning. There’ll be palm trees swaying in the breeze before we know it and parrots squawking at dawn.

Meanwhile I’ve been out in my cold, cold garage overhauling my wee genset. These new ones are amazing. They’re tiny, they’re quiet and produce electricity for hours on one tank of fuel. I have an “app” on my mobile phone which lets me monitor load, remaining fuel and allows me to shut the machine off remotely. It has not been running perfectly so I decided to remove the tiny carburetor for a good cleaning. So! Try jamming your gnarly old paws into that thing, while holding a wrench. It’s like trying to do brain surgery on a kitten, through the rectum! I succeeded. tt runs fine now but there were contemplations about the price of a new generator. Think green, bic it!

It’s complicated. These old poplar trees stretch out in the winter sun

Christmas shopping is at full frenzy. Folks are lined up in the grocery store buying their festive spam and the elite may be able to manage a sack of gizzards. Gull or turkey, who knows? While truly thankful that I’m not in Gaza, or the Ukraine, I wonder how this will end. Most folks in our culture don’t even know how to plant a potato. Damn we are spoiled and soft! In my favourite auto parts store a man was buying a full case of WD40 in spray cans. I complimented him on his clever Christmas shopping and wondered how long it would take to gift wrap each can. He told me that products in aerosol cans were being banned and he wanted to lay in a rest-of-his-life stock. Hmmm. As if the company was closing its doors! I wonder if he scooted on to pick up a case of toilet paper. We’ve been there before! And if you live on an island… with a belly full of turkey spam! Yer gonna need it.

Here in Ladysmith, the town throbs with Christmas lights, and they love special interest activities. One is to drive around town, and around, and bloody around with fire trucks and wailing sirens. The poor dogs howl their asses off and grumpy old men fume. What the hell sirens have to do with peace on earth is a total mystery. But then our neighbour has a pulsing, garish light display that looks like the crash scene of a 787.

In the distance, shotguns bang away at ducks. Christmas in the estuary.

And so now I’m writing on December 24^th. Everyone is out there rushing about on their final Christmas missions and I’m half a pot of coffee into my dawn watch. After a while I realize that the dull pallor is as good as it gets. It’s time to get out and walk the dogs before a heavy rain begins again. I wish everyone a happy traditional Christmas and that you all have someone to give a gift to. Fleas navigate and bumhug to all. Don’t let it make you swell up too much.

Christmas is built upon a beautiful and intentional paradox; that the birth of the homeless should be celebrated in every home.h G.K. Chesterton

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

Thwack

Mt. Baker from the BC Ferry as it nears the Tsawwassen Terminal. It was a gorgeous day. There was no hint of the terror for me coming in the minutes ahead. Accidents happen when least expected.

Two blogs ago I used a quote about how it is always in season for old men to continue learning. It’s true.

I had another quick lesson a few days ago. I’ve been healing ever since. I took my motorbike on the BC Ferry to Tsawwassen to visit a friend. Usually when the ferry arrives, motorcycles are disembarked first and have a chance to scoot ahead of the herd. This time, there were only two of us and we were held back to be finally released within the main herd. Folks are determined to drive like rabid lemmings, ignoring speed limits, cutting each other off, tailgating then slamming on their brakes. It is not a place to be on a motorbike, and yes I was a bit tense.

I held back, trying to maintain a three-vehicle distance ahead of me. A fellow in a pickup truck tailgating me decided that that gap ahead needed to be filled. He passed on the left over the double line into the oncoming lane, swerved in front of me then slammed on his brakes behind the next vehicle ahead. I believe I had a nano-second to choose between slamming the back of that truck or laying down on the road. It all happened very quickly and I cannot honestly recall the blur of the next few moments. I braked as hard as I could and then I was skidding along the road on the face of my helmet. What a noise it made! I recall worrying about being run over by the vehicle behind.

Skidmarks. That full face guard saved me from a nasty injury. Imagine what my face could have been ground down to. What a hell of a noise it made!

One vehicle’s driver yelled to ask if I was OK then roared on ahead. A young man with a, get this, unicycle, on the road shoulder came to assist. He got me on my feet, helped pick up the bike and gathered bits of mirror and other collateral damage. I was very grateful to say the least. The motorcycle seemed entirely roadworthy. I was numb and incredulous about how lucky I was. I rode on to my friend’s home and did a full assessment. There were some tweaks required on the motorcycle and some permanent honourable battle scars. Profuse thanks were offered to my friend. He’s a seasoned motorcyclist who finally convinced me to wear proper protective clothing. Both my gloves and riding pants were in use for a first time. I couldn’t thank him enough, delighted that simple common sense had overcome a testosterone rush.

Received from a friend, I’ve no idea who drew this. Full kudus are due. We all know the feeling.

I hurt in several places, my left hand has been useless and is swollen like a football, but everything is slowly improving. I would have been a bowl of pudding without the protective clothing. Frankly, it was the autumn temperature that demanded the riding gear, but they’ll be a fact of life from now on no matter what the weather. I fully realize how very, very fortunate I am and accept my pain as the price of being alive. I have had a dark image of a beige hospital ceiling and a tangle of hoses and wires while the electronic bleeps and blips marked every pulse. I’ve been there and don’t want to go back. I was too thumped-up to ride the bike home, I’ll have go back and get it. That might be a long ride home and I have some decisions to make.

Hot Head. I know it’s rude but that’s the way it was. My fellow rider was the same age as me and also recently returned to riding. He wore this replica German Army helmet while he rode his beautiful Harley, all the way to Mackenzie BC . He did have electrically-heated hand grips and vest.

Should I treat this as a lesson or a warning? Am I too old to be a safe rider? I do not have a lifetime of riding confidence and instinct to rely on. Part of my safety agenda is knowing that I am no longer a snappy young operator with the instincts of a wasp. Was my incident something for which I can blame myself? What could I have done differently? Dunno. I think of some of my heroes and just cannot let my age be an excuse. Many of then were seniors before they started out on their exploits. Things happen so quickly. It was as if a big hand with a monster fly-swatter had reached down from the sky and given me a wee tap. I then remember the last thing to go through a bug’s mind as it hits a windshield. His bum. Part of the lesson may well be to simply not over-analyse. Get on with life.

Harbour glow. Life goes on, no matter what happens to who. Grab every moment you can. There are no second chances.

“Only a biker knows why a dog sticks its head out of a car window.” – anonymous

No I Don’t

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

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

Here are some of the things he had to say:

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

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

“Education is about domination.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mating season. Maybe there will be more little trucks.

I’m finding plenty of fungal photos this fall.

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

What can be finer than to wonder as you wander?

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

Gauntlet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morning again? Where ya dragging me off to today?

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

Mount Baker on the left, 136 km away from Crofton

Pier pressure. Yet another lovely autumn day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They often break through brick-hard ground overnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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.