The sun climbs again into a near-cloudless sky, miles along the horizon southward from where it rose in summer. A hard white frost forms before slowly burning away. Next morning an angry red glow is the sunrise. Two days later a proper cold autumn rain falls through the day and night. It’s a harbinger of change on election day. We have a new provincial government, a sweeping majority this time. The people have spoken. This new mob are all unknowns. Let’s see how they tackle the mess left that they have so eagerly embraced. “Dear Mom: You’ll never guess….”
Meanwhile I’m bent over in the rain collecting the daily dog dna samples. My technique is to take a green doggie bag off the roll, shake it open, insert my hand and do what needs doing. Turn it inside out, tie a knot in the end, throw it over the neighbour’s fence. Well not really. Keeping the yard clean helps maintain a good rappour and helps our dignity as responsible dog owners. Today I had a sudden poopiphany as I looked at my hand in the bag. I remembered Michael Jackson, his sliding-backward step and one hand in a big glove. There surely is a man collecting dog turds. He’s just stepped in one and is trying to wipe it off his shoe. If that image doesn’t work try a burly man doubled over laughing in the rain with a fistfull of dog shit in a bag. Once a farm boy… Jill suggested a few days apart could be a good thing. I took the hint. Look folks, some crap washes off at the end of the day!
My motorcycle has just sold to a very nice fellow, which doesn’t make me feel better. I have had to admit that at age 74 the old grey stud just ain’t what he used to be. Knowing I was an accident waiting to happen left me tensed up. That ensures the inevitable. Who would want my bellyful of tired old guts? Organ donour, yeah right. I’m now stumped for what to do with myself and with a whole long dreary winter ahead I’d better figure it out.
Today in mid-afternoon I hooked up the trailer and headed north. The highway north from Campbell River to Sayward always seems to always take an hour, no matter how hard you drive those sixty-four kilometers. It is twisty, with roads not banked properly and there may always be something on the road around the next curve; a herd of elk perhaps or a vehicle overturned, maybe with a pile of logs stacked helter skelter. Tonight the rain came in bursts and there were pockets of fog. It seemed that the vehicles I met either had six glaring head lights or only one sadly peeking into the ditch. Mine offered a baleful glow which precluded any hi-speed operations. Especially after a lumen lobotomy from each one of those idot light warriors. Each meeting leaves one temporarily blind on a black night winding through the forest. Bugga! The promise of a hot bowl of soup at the pub drew me forward. Finally I’m at that door. The pub was bloody closed! In Sayward! Isn’t that their main business?
So here I am, an old potbellied boy settling in for the night, bursts of rain drumming on the trailer roof. As usual I am alone. I slide between the icy sheets burping up after-fumes of tinned chicken soup. Outside, the hellish red light of the Co-op sign at the gas station across the road reflects in the puddles where I’m parked. I fall asleep snug in a comfy bed as another burst of rain crashes down. It seems that within minutes there is a muffler-less vehicle close outside. There are voices shouting over the din and plenty of slamming doors. Loggers meeting up on their way to work. I used to be one. But not this morning. They’re on their way up some mountain and want to be there to use every minute of daylight in these short mid-autumn days. Soon there will be too much snow up there to work. The pub will open then.
I arrive at the Naka Creek camp campsite. The entire beautiful sunny world is mine alone. I usually stay in the old camp area but today I chose the elbow of the breakwater at the old log dump. I have the ocean to myself on three sides. My dear friend Niels died a year ago. I introduced him to this place and he loved it dearly. It was his spot where I sit at this moment. How I miss him.
When I arrived there was a familiar sight in the distance. A log tow was coming down the strait and would pass in a few hours. The boat looked familiar and soon proved to be my beloved ‘Pacific Fury’ She has a look and sound that is unique. She was my favourite. Her massive single Deutz diesel could outpull any twin-engined tug on the coast and today the steady thrum of her heart was a song for me. I don’t know how many watches I’ve stood on her but it is a huge piece of time in my life. No regrets, not that one. There she went, in new fresh colours looking loved and ship shape and still working. My drive up to this moment made the trip entirely worthwhile. There is a gale in the forecast. As it rises I prepare for bed. I will enjoy being rocked to sleep.
Of course the trailer is parked broadside to the wind. All night she was battered with bursts of wind and rain. I love that. There is a sense of life while being cradled in the arms of a world that makes sense. I know my tiny place in the grand scheme of things, I am content. I could see all the old familiar lights in the distance, Blinkhorn, Blackney Pass, the two radio tower’s red lights on Cormorant Island. Nothing has changed, a gratifying sense. The day dawns grey and blustery and I am staying right here. A whole day in the same place!
And so I did. I napped and drank tea, wrote a little and philosophized a bit. I decided that I must truly be getting old. I’ve given up trying to pluck my hairy ears. Pruning them to full bushiness only confirms the fact. It is inappropriate to let little children sit on my lap, especially girls, although in this non-binary age everything is bad; even if it happened twenty years ago. I’ll stay here alone and fiddle with my ears. I suppose even mentioning my ears is a sign of senility. Yep it’s good to back out here in the cold wet jungle where I truly belong. I’ll let my photos tell the story.
“ The difference between humans and animals is that animals never let a fool lead the pack.” Winston Churchill