Winter Archives - bc-bog-trotter.com

Looking Up

“Oh Camilia, you’re breaking my heart” Much too early this camilia flower on the tree in my front yard adds brightness to the winter gloom.

Well Happy, Happy New Year! Ain’t it all a flock of bluebirds flitting about under a triple rainbow!

Can it be the Easter Bunny already? With high grocery prices it may well become someone’s supper.

I have just sat outside for a few minutes on my front porch. There is a street lamp outside our hedge. In its cone of light a thick soaking drizzle sheets down in waves. It looks like a Hollywood film set. Humphrey Bogart could appear in a trench coat, collar turned up, fedora low over his eyes. “Gotta light sweetheart?” It has rained steadily all day, there are two more days and nights of this in the forecast. Happily, it’s not snow. Yet.

No man is an island. Especially when he’s out of rum or firewood.

We’re already well past the middle of January. It seems we’ve already had enough woes thrust upon us to last until next Christmas. “Can’t have gravy all the time” a former boss used to say. I’m not asking for anything but a happy news story or at least an intelligent one. I am happy to not be spending the night in a doorway and I’m glad enough to be here versus so many other places on the planet. We’re doing fine. The only ambitious thing I did today was to walk the dogs on a sopping path in the woods nearby. They were happy to be home again. The hammering rain continues.

My tide guage. In the extreme spring tides just after the New Year, or “King Tides,” I use this dock across the bay as a tide guage. When the ramp is nearly horizontal, it is near high slack. At lowest low tide, in the dark, it will be tending toward the vertical.

Sunup 08:00. A gift. Mount Baker, our own volcano about ninety miles away, sits just over the wire.

Finally the weather breaks and we are caught in the chill damp of mid-January. The sky is clear overhead but before the frost has melted away my backyard is in shadows for the rest of the day. Within that gloom I look up to the glittering spectacle of high altitude flights glittering in the azure lofty sky. This nutter is trying to accomplish some landscaping projects while the rain holds off. What other goofs are out there trying to reshape their little world in the middle of winter? Passengers in those aircraft are thinking ahead to tepid seas, warm sandy beaches, palm trees and icy citrus drinks. Bugga!

Winter ducks. Isn’t your ass getting cold?

Did a manic winter-bound sun-starved pagan carve this?

Aliens. Lenticular clouds over the Strait of Georgia.

Today the bay was shrouded in fog. It lifted and fell, swirled and drifted, twisted and rose then fell again in a heavy bank. The day was dark and forbidding. Late in the afternoon a ship came in to anchor. Its horn thundered wonderfully and continuously in the thick fog. It sounded as if we would soon see the bow looming over our backyards. Finally there came the thunder of the anchor chain as several shots of writhing steel shot out of the hawse pipe. Then silence. Out in the bay, in the night’s fog, a ship and its crew, from some foreign port rests.

WALK? We’re warm, we’re dry and you want us to go out there in the cold? Leasve sleeping dogs lay DAD!

Somewhere else tonight, coyotes howl under the light of a gibbous moon. A mesquite log shifts in a campfire and little creatures skitter among the brush and cacti. I wish I were there, just for the night. The desert is a splendid place to sleep. Perhaps someone there also wrestles with a troubled mind. What do they worry about? I doubt they think of anyone on a water-logged island somewhere in the North Pacific. And who cares? We’re here; now. That is all there is.

Yippy owooooo.

I love this painting. It adorns the wall in our favourite restaurant in Ladysmith, the ‘Indian Palate.’ The food is fantastic. This unsigned original was purchased by the restaurant owner in India.

“ I would rather die of passion than of boredom.”

“Art is what we leave of ourselves in other people.” – Fredrik Backman ‘My Friends’

Shouldering Season

Remember Norman Rockwell? You have seen his work. He was a revered and iconic American painter of the last century. He produced a mountain of somewhat kitschy yet warm and fuzzy images of Americana. One of those paintings was called ‘The Stay At Homes.’ A bent and gnarled geriatric sea captain stands above a village and looks out onto a broad bay. His left hand rests on the shoulder of a young boy in a sailor’s costume. Beside the child stands a small spotted dog. Upon the bay there goes a top’sl schooner sailing on a broad reach before a stiff breeze. In the air above, gulls soar as the pair gaze out to sea. There is an air of the sea’s mystery and a sense of wisdom imparted.

I have held that image in my mind since I first saw it. For a long time I was that young sea-lusting lad. Lately I realize I am fast becoming the old salt. It hurts. The aches and pains of an arthritic winter are upon me. Somehow I have to get my carcass south for a while and then there is this wonderful place to come home to. The cost of everything, it seems, is prohibitive and then there is this bloody BC Ferry fare. I guess it is part of the price of island life but it does leave folks with a sense of entrapment. Just to get my truck and trailer over to mainland Canada costs approximately two hundred dollars, one way. Imagine the ticket for a commercial truck load of lettuce! And then there is the fuel and the tax on that. So, as usual, low finances stand in the way. Or, is that just a lame excuse?

Allie is a six year old girl rescued from China. Now she needs a new home, Her eyes melted my heart but I already have two wonderful rescued dogs.

Finally. After decades of looking I get a quick photo of a tree frog. These tiny guys have a booming call but are masters of staying hidden. My dog Libby sniffed this one out where it sat three feet beside the path. It is about two inches long.

There is no point in lamenting things you can’t, or won’t, change. Just let it be and find something good to focus on. It is why I continue to take photos and write blogs. There is beauty in everything, but first you have to want to find it. By focusing on those tiny joys all around us life remains bearable, sometimes even worthwhile. That quest is life inspiring. Sadly, last night, I was awakened just before 03:00 by the sound of an airplane flying low and slow. It sounded as if full flaps were employed and the engine was labouring. It was a rotten night out with blasts of rain and intermittent fog. As a pilot, I knew something was wrong but then dismissed the noise as some unusual vehicle down on the highway. In the morning I learned the single-engine aircraft I had heard crashed only a minute later. The pilot was dead.

Low and slow is always a recipe for disaster especially in the middle of a nasty night. I will not speculate but can easily imagine the terror and panic as things went wrong. Those would have been long seconds before the merciful oblivion of the crash. I was taught long ago that altitude is money in the bank and airspeed is money in the pocket. Spend your assets wisely. The sense I cannot shake is of being alone in that cockpit that night. Rest in peace mate whomever you were.

Autumn Pond
Salmon lurk beneath, exotic waterfowl stop to rest on their way south.

Flying south over the pond. Actually, it’s landing at Nanaimo Airport.

Today is “Light Up Day” in Ladysmith. After local volunteers have strung up millions of Christmas lights over the pavement and buildings of main street, crowds will gather in the cold rain and “OooAh” as the grand blaze is switched on. Tomorrow is Black Friday as the orgy of Christmas credit spending goes into full launch mode. The general excesses of the season will sustain many retailers for the year ahead. Meanwhile the food banks can’t meet demand.

An old friend reappears. She was once a marina neighbour. ‘Beluga Spray’ is about 44′ by 14′ She’s a beast. I recall that below she was finished in varnished oak and reminded me of a Baptist church. After thirty plus years I hope the dream is still alive. Maybe someday she’ll get a set of spars and sails and truly go to sea.

A dipper bird. This amazing creature can walk underwater along the bottom of rushing stream beds feeding on what they find. Right now there is a feast of salmon eggs. Always moving, they are hard to photograph especially in the dull light of autumn.

Here, old Mr. Bumhug hisself will turn his back on the bizarre and abstract frenetics to warily watch the season .pass from afar. I have repaired the neighbour’s snow blowers and will sit huddled next to my electric fireplace watching the wee birds at their feeder outside my window. Winter approaches. I’m ready. Good cheer, and warm wishes to all.

Two eagles watch my wee dogs pass. They are enjoying a bountiful salmon spawn.

Ready for spring. Artechoke seeds and starter pots in the garden shed.

Now is the season of trying to keep the bird feeders full. The little bandits can empty them quickly.

Those who wish to sing Always find a song. Old Swedish proverb.

On A Winter Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charlie Chaplin

Warm And Fuzzy

It is already near the end of January. We are in the middle of a coastal winter. There has been over a foot of snow, blasts of freezing rain, sub zero temperatures and a general grey permeating coldness throughtout everything. I’ve been slowly tinkering on my travel trailer and dreaming of the day when I’ll actually see tropical plants through its windows. The days drag by and the snow piled higher. The the rain washed it all away. Last night I was overcome with a poxy illness that haunted me all night and was settled in firmly by morning. I spent the whole day in bed and slept through nearly until it was dark again.

Three dog night, all day long.
photo by Jill

Our Callas Lily continues to add cheer in the kitchen. I prefer buying potted plants to cut ones.

Downtown Duncan. I call it “rustic charm”
It’s an exotic destination for the winterbound.

Five Ships. i never tire of our harbour views.

My two wee doggies cuddled close all day long. It was very touching. The girls confirmed how dogs are more in tune with their inner self that humans. They know when you’re down. When I finally crawled into the shower there they sat shoulder to shoulder making sure I was OK. My wife cared for me lovingly and tonight I’m hoping to feel well enough to crawl out again in the morning. Meanwhile friends are sending photos from places like Florida and Baha. I’m happy for them. Yeah right!

There’s not a lot to write about these days. The battle for the rights to the Ladysmith Maritime Society is over. We lost. There’s no point in analyzing our defeat. I like and respect the folks at LMS but they were too darned Canadian and nice. No one was willing to fight fire with fire and be a little nastier than the people overrunning us. I’ve alienated myself by suggesting that. There’s nothing more to say. Oh right, “Be kind.” Nice guys finish last.

“Dad, why are they called car… toons?” photo by Jill

Can you hear the winter wind whistling in the roof top?

More winter lines, low tide at the black beach. It is a former coal terminal. A carbon footprint.

He’ll be a big dog when he’s all grown up!

And so this jaded old prince has spent an ungainful hibernation month with little dogs cuddled up beneath the blankets. It is so zen! Then one farts. FAAAW! A sub-nuclear lethal cloud from a tiny beast. Wow, drop a few of these over the Ukrainian border and the Russians will be gone. The wonderful thing about dog gas is that it’ll stick to your leg and only release you when it’s ready, no matter how fast you run. The Taliban Chihuahua. Allah fartbar.

I’m going back to bed.

Peter Kreeft Quote: “Don’t be more serious than God.

God invented dog farts.

Clickety Clack

Can you hear the bell, the whistle, the hiss of steam, the click of wheels on track? These were common sounds once along our abandoned railway.

I never made it Astoria. Jill endured a last-minute medical issue and off course I could not go and leave her alone. Jill is fine now. Thank goodness! I’m disgusted that I missed my Fisher Poets Gathering but life is a series of dead-ends and disappointments. That’s the way the pickle squirts and you have to look for the good part when you hit a bump in the road. Last weekend was very snowy, all the way to California. I could have been stuck down in Astoria, sampling their wonderful local craft beer and fresh seafood; survival food That’d be terrible! Maybe next year! Because I was home, I happened to discover an article in the “Times Colonist,” our island rag, and wrote the following response. You may not know or care about the debacle which is our island railway, but I believe it is a backbone of our economy and civilization. It is appalling to me that anyone can consider abandoning it forever.

No train today; or tomorrow. The old whistle stop at Cobble Hill.

Providentially, the very next evening I caught a documentary about the Ukraine Railway system. An upgraded number now has the number of evacuated folk fleeing invasion at nearly four million. There is of course no civilian air travel within the Ukraine, roads are impassable and so the rail system there is a prime weapon and defense supply line. The Russians bomb it incessantly and the Ukrainians make repairs with even more determination. Their skills have improved out of necessity. Jobs that once took a week can now be done overnight. It critically underscores the importance of a railway to any country and its regions.

There is an argument that Vancouver Island does not have a large enough population base to support a modern rail line. It has occurred to me that the single piece of infrastructure which became the foundation for the nation of Canada was our transcontinental railway. The population then was a mere fraction of our present and rapidly growing number of Canadians. Enough said. I’ve also sent a copy of this letter to our Provincial Transport Minister, Rob Fleming.

At one time spur lines like this were part of our working railway. We need it back.

The long way to Victoria. The longer we leave it, the longer it will be.

There are lots of snow photos in this blog. I’m trying to see the beauty. I’ll try to find new adventure for my next post.

I respond to your front-page story in today’s edition titled “First Nation says it’s end of the line for Island railway. ” Every progressive nation around the planet struggles to develop environmentally friendly modern railways in a bid to improve their infrastructure. Why do we need to continue this debate? Ukrainian Railways, for example, with over 19,000 kilometers of rail line, has been the life-saving implement in that country’s effort to defend itself. In the past year of it’s horrible invasion, nearly 4,000,000 people have been transported to safety and the network continues to be a prime supply artery.

On Vancouver Island, permission for the E&N Railway was provided to Robert Dunsmuir to help exploit the mineral and timber resources of this island. The Provincial Government of the time even provided funding to that MLA for the railway’s development. Now it lies abandoned, a bizarre story of nepotism, exploitation and gross mismanagement. To turn this valuable asset over to any regressive interest would be a poignant footnote to this saga of epic tragedy.

However: let’s look at our rail line in a positive light. Logging companies, over the past century, have built a macrame of rail grades over the entire island. It would be no great feat to extend the E&N railway all the way to the large population of Campbell River. Employment once required me to travel the Island Parkway (Itself viciously opposed at one time) in the small hours of early morning. That highway is very busy with traffic in both directs in the middle of the night. Where all those folks are going at all hours is a mystery, but people clearly need to travel. Consider a newly built electric rail line which would join Campbell River, Port Alberni, Nanaimo, and all points in between to Victoria, just think of the environmental sense. The passenger service would need to run at regular intervals of a few hours, going both ways, round the clock. Think of the relief to our ever busier highways and the simple savings of fossil fuel. Think green, act green. The cost of the rebuild would prove a wise investment.

I try to recall the days when the heat shimmers on the pavement and a drink of water is a precious thing.

A container port could be built near Port of Alberni with a direct rail link to mainland Canada via Nanaimo. Can you think of a better contingency plan in the event of the massive earthquake we anticipate? What an economic stimulus that would provide to Vancouver Island. Add a couple of steam-powered excursion trains for our tourist industry and develop a marine link on classic ships between Victoria and Port Alberni. Run the route both ways, it would soon be a world famous attraction. The possibilities are as limited as anyone’s imagination.

If we give away the existing remnant of our rail line, we will never have the opportunity to reclaim it. We are desperately overdue for this piece of basic infrastructure on Vancouver Island. It is essential for the future of our beloved island. I am a retired caucasian male heterosexual married man who has tried to earn a living in the resource industries of British Columbia. I understand I am part of a group we can call Canada’s “Last Nation,” but if this geezer can think out of the box, so can the rest of us. We just have to think of what we can achieve by working together. Special interest groups pulling against each other ultimately achieve nothing.

Fred Bailey

Ladysmith BC

A little white stuff certainly changes perspectives. I love this graffiti in the woods.

El pipo. The wooden pipe, four feet in diameter, carries water for miles to our local pulp mill.

Spring grass in the flood plain. There’ll be deer tracks.

Last night, February 3, Venus and Jupiter came together for a brief visit. My big marvel was the clear sky.

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Even if you are on the right track you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” – Will Rogers

Call Of The Tree Frog

Breathe. The swans are getting restless. Some stay resident, but many migrate northward in spring. The sight of them in flight and the sound of their clear loud calls are unforgettable.

Last night the light of the waning half-moon glowed through an overcast which continued to rain. This morning the precipitation had ended, here at least. The day seemed bright despite the overcast, perhaps in contrast to days of deep gloom. Doggies and I went for a walk in a local park named Hemer, after a local farming family who donated the land. It is a delightful network of trails sprawling through second-growth forest which blankets broken ground sprawling between a few small lakes and swamps.

Cornered. Some last spawners of the season take a rest before their final hurdle.

Today the woods reverberated with the peculiar croinking grunt of tree frogs. I have spent many hours through the years stalking these tiny reptiles. I have yet to see one. As you approach the apparent source of their call, they fall silent. You dare not move or make a sound if you want to hear them call again. It is a waiting game which I invariably loose. No matter how hard I methodically scan the branches, trunks, leaves and plants I never see one.

(This video clip may take a while to download)

Tree Frog seg

For those who can’t wait for the 2 minute download, here is a still shot of where I recorded the frogs. This is all second-growth forest.

A fir, a cedar and a maple. Original old-growth trees. The fir, on the left, is about eight feet in diameter.

It’s frustrating. I love their call and how they herald the distant spring. Today there was yet another loud proclamation of the changing season. Through the echoing woods, from over a mile away, the roar of sea lions filtered over the distance. They inhabit the log booms just north of Dodd Narrows and have come to await the arrival of the annual herring migration. Those fish come here to spawn in the spring, according to their own mysterious timing. Like a symphony orchestra everthing is on the same page, playing its part perfectly and right on time. We’ve just got to sit back and enjoy the music instead of trying to be the conductor. Da da dum!

Done! The wonderful colours of this Cyclamen have cheered us through the autumn and winter. Now it’s a time for a rest.

Common Mergansers. They are reclusive and very hard to photograph.

The winter gloom of another rainy overcast provides almost enough light to take photographs that are often unfocused because of the low light and slow shutter speeds. Colours are drab but we do our best. Photography is a way of forcing myself to take an interest in the world around me. No matter how dismal, there is beauty and an effort to reach out for life. It is a deep mystery at times, but sometimes you have to accept things you do not understand. Bloom where you’re planted. Shed a little light in someone else’s eyes and you’ll find some for yourself.

Roots drawing life from a long-fallen mother log

Winter Swamp, where the bog trotter roams.

Rush to the sea, a mile away. Through the trees filters the distant calls of a mob of sea lions.

A suggestion box? Looks like someone has emptied it. They must have had a ladder.

The ten horsepower dog. He’ll be big when he grows up! To gauge his size, note the footprint beside him. He is tethered simply with a string. A lovely character indeed.

“If you know you can do it, why go in the first place? ” Iohan Guearguiev

Christmas Zoom

“Thazzit?” Hopefully the White Christmas business is over. Thank you!

Two days before Christmas I sat watching the desert fly by. Cacti, and rocks and dust fling by the handle bar of a motorcycle where a video camera was mounted. The bike is participating in a rally in The Baha desert. I love the desert by I can’t understand why anyone would want to beat themselves, and their expensive piece of machinery like that. Just because I don’t get it does not mean it’s wrong, it is just not for me. I’d love to be there in fact, right now, on a motorbike, but idling along; Fred Quixote, the happy wanderer. I’m a lover not a racer. Outside my window here, a grainy snow sifts down, ahead of a forecast for a heap more snow, then torrential rain.

And the creeks did rise. There was flooding which subsided quickly.

"Follow me. Don't worry, it's too cold for snakes." — “Follow me. Don’t worry, it’s too cold for snakes.”

Television news this week is full of reports of cancelled flights and backed-up air terminals as people complain about who is to blame. There are claims of never having known storms like this before. Really? Do you actually believe yourself? It doesn’t taking much digging into records to see that there have been plenty of winter storms, fiercer, colder, snowier than this. A funny thing happens when you plan to travel during winter, you have to deal with winter storms. Yes really! Your agenda has nothing to with what the weather gods determine. It’s called reality. Don’t take it personally. It is not the fault of any airline, or weather forecaster.

I find it ludicrous that Canadians expect that by stepping through a few doorways, and waiting a few hours, you can move from a country known to be a wintery place and always arrive, on time, in some lower latitude tropical paradise. Even telephone calls don’t always get through. Reality, and our expectations, are often very far apart. There are still seats available on the all-inclusive Christmas tour of the Ukraine. For no extra charge, you can pick out an orphaned dog or cat and bring them home with you. And then, there are the children.

Bacon ‘n eggs. The pig is committed and the chicken is involved. Actually this one’s a rooster!

Winter weather brings the elk down to low ground. They’re very tasty too but it’s wonderful to see natural wild herds on the roam.

The bulls have shed their antlers already, but they’re still noble creatures.

This old farm boy will admit to hating goats. But, I’ll also admit, they do have a certain charm.

With Christmas past, the weather has warmed, the wind and rain have hammered away much of the snow. We have survived our day of grief missing those we so loved and are now gone. The wee dogs and I will soon head out, hopefully there’ll be no more slush-hopping. With wind slamming the trees around it may be a good idea to stay out in the open. Four days later, after another “weather event” of biblical rain, the snow is completely gone except for the receding heaps we shoveled so high last week. Now our lowlands are flooded as usual after heavy rain. Folks, as usual, are looking for someone to blame. Frankly, I’ve little pity for people who are determined to live in bottomland that is repeatedly flooded. Hello? Hello?

End of the home stretch. One more spawn at Christmas time. The colour is right.

Five on the hook, waiting for a cargo just before Christmas as another storm blows in from the sou’east.

A glorious visual moment after two hours of snow-shoveling. It’s pretty up there.

Follow me. He’ll never catch us. “Gawd, I hate spiders!”

And so we have survived into a New Calendar year. Fireworks intermittently hammered under a beautiful clear sky until after 3 am. It sounded like yet another assault on Kiev. Life goes on whether we like it or not, suck it up and go do something. Wishing everyone health and happiness with good things to look forward to. May you find contentment in the moment.

The watcher. From deep inside an old alder, yet another bark owl peeks out.

Juniper. We’d be shocked to learn how old this venerable beauty is.

Trincomali Bonsai. A winter view toward Ruxton Pass during a solstice high tide.

Thet yer RV? A good mattress and two saddle bags, all you need. Due South!

“You are never too old to reinvent yourself.” Steve Harvey

Bombastic Bastard

Christmas kilowatts. This is the lower half of main street Ladysmith. The glow goes up the hill and then the homes try to compete with the gaudiness. Honey, just leave a candle in the window for me.

The weather girl in a tight skirt warned of a deluge of rain today, that dreaded atmospheric river. I opened the curtains to find a cloudless sky and watched as frost formed while the first light of day crept up the neighbour’s wall. So far so good. I hope she’s wrong about the snow.

The Christmas Arachnid. Not bad for the end of November.

Canadians are known for politeness. We are retiring and demure to a point of absolute timidity. We can find ourselves hanging off a cliff-edge with a bully standing on our fingers and peeing on our head. We’ll politely ask if someone could please bring us a small towel. Often when you stand up against an inequity you are branded as a troublemaker. Afraid of confrontation, we do nothing. I’m not suggesting that, like some of our neighbours to the south, we shoot someone for blinking but Jeeze Louise! It’s your life, eh!

Would you really pack your dirty knickers off to someone named Sue War?

Politicians are merely people we hire, or appoint, to do jobs we don’t want to tackle ourselves. That is so from the Prime Minister’s office down to the backyard politics of the strata council. There is the presumption that these folks have stepped forward to serve their fellows but all too often we have to contend with characters who have an agenda to massage their own ego by trying to manipulate and control their constituents. Being Canadians, we say “Oh OK eh.”

When we get to town what are we going to do? Chase cats? What if they’re bigger than us?

Ayre wise eyes. she’s proving to be an excellent big sister to little Libby.

I live in a strata-titled development. There are eighteen share holders. We moved in after living in other strata-titled shituations but the appeal of this little home, and its location, were grand and so we took a deep breath and tip-toed in. We can easily walk to our small town mainstreet and they’ve now built a pub half a block away. Unfortunately many of our neighbours, and fellow share-holders, moved in as strata virgins and didn’t understand that there is more to communal life than simply paying monthly fees and letting someone else do the dirty work. Invariably, as in all politics, apathy is a prime breeding ground for those who have a craving for control and power, even at such a miniscual level.

Despite their furious denials, we have a couple of those folks on our tiny strata council. They try to manipulate their neighbours, telling them what they must and cannot do, and have expenditures without transparency. They constantly impose condescending tones on anyone who dares challenge them and even employ vindictive tactics if you challenge their petty tyrany. We hired a professional property management company to apply some objective direction but as it turns out, that agent slithered in with our questionable concillors and so we live in a dark little world of backyard politics. They are incompetent to the point of not knowing what they don’t know and adamnant that no-one else understands more than they do. I once named this home as our “Lock it and leave it” but it clearly requires some hands-on involvement. We’d just sell and leave but can’t find an equitable alternative, especially with certain health issues and all the hassles of moving. If you are considering a move to a strata-titled situation I suggest that it’s wise to go meet a few of your potential new neighbours and ask if they are content living there. Actually, meeting the folks next door before you are committed is a prudent thing to do before buying a new to-you home anywhere.

After living here for over a decade I finally went to our recent annual general meeting and raised hell. I was indeed the bombastic bastard who shook the bushes until the monkies fell out. In the end, I have only accomplished a new awareness of our strata council for my fellows and probably made some enemies. I know that will soon wear off, but it’s the best I can do. I am stunned that folks will allow a major investment which is their own home be so mis-managed with few or no questions. A person will pay the price of home ownership one way or another. I’ve become convinced that strata-titled living is overpriced for me.

There is an old wisdom which says “The fear of change is only overcome when the pain of a situation becomes too great to bear.” I guess we have a ways to go yet. Lordy, I miss my boat!

Yeah, I know, the greatest thing about living in Canada is that we are all free to leave if we don’t like it here. Sometimes, this stubborn old sailor is inclined to set out more anchoring gear when the wind rises. Grin and bare it Billy!

Meanwhile it’s Black Friday weekend, another milestone in our lemming consumer stupidity. “Buy now and save!” A wonderful and wise elderly lady once asked me “If ye canna pay for it once, how will ye pay for it twice?” It’s the wisest financial advice I’ve ever ignored.

A Tub Boat. Some folks will even pay to ride in a boat filled with water!

We go to our modern cathedrals, the malls, and worship our gods of consumerism. It’ll make us feel gooder for a little while. There must be some available credit on one card. All is well. First you have to find a parking spot somewhere on that vastness of mall pavement to leave your electric SUV. (Stupid Urban Vanity…it may never leave pavement) Later, you have to find it again. Perhaps that’s why so many new vehicles are available in garish colours. (Raspberry fluorescent green banana, range 3.7 km, bearing 176 degrees. Bleep it!) Then you have to get back into the thing. Some dufus has abandoned their vehicle an inch from yours so you can’t open your doors. You have to clamber in through the back hatch. That’s when the mall cop shows up. Christmas! Bumhug!

Ready for winter. No strata problems here!

Nice! No tree died in the making of this photo.

“Get off your dead centers.” Paul Harvey

The Dark Before The Dawn

Soggy bottom goats. It’s the time of year when summer seems a distant fantasy.

Under the Volcano. Mount Baker 10,781′ ASL is 149 km (about 94 miles) from my front door. It is a live volcano.

We all know that famous quote from Winston Churchill about how it is always darkest before the dawn. I sit writing this morning looking out a window at a thick cone of fog beneath a street light. There is a darkness blacker than the night and that impenetrable gloom smothers all. There is a palpable weight to the pre-dawn world. No bird sings. Jack is in his bed near my feet in what I fear may be his last days. Our deep affection for him is mixed with selfish guilt that he may be in pain. We wrestle with the dark decision we know we soon may have to make. His back legs are now paralyzed, he needs help with his basic functions. He’s a very stoic character and it is impossible to tell if he is suffering. Yet we cling to each minute of his presence and focus our will on keeping him alive and in comfort. I’ve spent hours laying with him, holding him, thanking him for all the wonderful years and trying to let him know that it is alright to let go and fly on ahead to find his peace. There is no catharsis with writing about this. I sure hope old Winnie was right. *

Hobbling along the beach a few weeks ago, Jack demonstrates his keen interest in the world around him. He seems determined to squeeze every drop of life out of each moment.

I’ve been reading a wonderful novel. ‘The Overstory’ by Richard Powers. The book deservedly won a Pulitzer. It is very cleverly written and leaves me feeling completely unworthy as any sort of writer. Among other interwoven themes Powers examines the militant environmental movement, the “Tree Hugger.” One of his persistent efforts is to show how complex and venerable the entire forest is; how interconnected all things natural are. Saving a piece of forest is not just about the trees, ultimately it is about a massive ecosystem called Earth. What is interesting to me is how I once was inclined toward the other side but have slowly evolved to hold a much broader view and respect beyond my own personal greed.

I’ve decided to start exploring old cafes I find, those quintessential “Greasy spoons.” This one is in Downtown Duncan.

It is very funky inside. The art is wonderful, the food was good.

March 18, 1985. The story is about a UFO enthusiast who had vanished. The ad is for Woodwards, a BC institution which closed its doors in 1993. Its famous jingle was “Woodwards, $1.49 day, Tuesday.”

For once I’m lost for a caption. What a lovely comic image.

The tiniest bark owl I’ve seen. Making these effigies and mounting them outdoors seems a growing trend.

I used to joke that it is interesting how most of our militant and vocal environmentalists come from a world entirely alien to forests and wilderness. Here in BC chances are good they live somewhere in the lower mainland and don’t give a fig for living without all their modern conveniences. Their home environment is the biggest clear cut in the province. Not only are the trees gone, the natural earth has all been ripped up and then smothered in concrete, asphalt, and alien vegetation. Millions of years of natural evolution wiped out for modern ease and personal convenience.

Colour! Any colour to cheer the winter gloom.

This fungus on a decomposing log is as important to the grand scheme as any other organism, large or microscopic.

Our watersheds have been re-arranged to suit our current greeds. Rivers and streams have been diverted and channelled, smothered with concrete and culverts, or simply filled in or drained. Lakes are drained, we build on thier dried bottoms then howl when nature puts things back they way they were. Just think about how much of the earth is destroyed to build a highway, an airport or railway, a mall or a golf course, a subdivision or even a church. We then look for someone to blame when our prime real estate is flooded. After we’ve mutated much of our prime land we then import food from somewhere else on the planet instead of growing it ourselves. Let’s not discuss the footprint we leave because of that. Even this old sailor knows that is very bad economics. Being able to feed yourself first comes as a cornerstone of building wealth. I understand the deep need for an idea of wilderness and untouched forest. I don’t understand why the message is always about what someone else is supposed to do.When someone stands in front of a TV camera describing their loses to a natural event, it is always in terms of dollars. So before we get into our plastic electric suv (Stupid Urban Vanity) loaded with cardboard protest signs nailed to wooden sticks, let’s ask ourselves some basic questions. End rant.

Jack asks: “If shitting under a bush on the natural soil is bad, how come it’s OK to go to the effort of putting it in a plastic bag and then leave it hanging in a tree? People! Grrrr.

From my time as a boy laying in the grass watching the clouds, to being an old pilot with most of his life behind him, there is still magic in the sky.

* I’m posting this blog three days after I began to write it. Amazingly, Jack has rallied. He has found his legs again and can shuffle around on his own. He has his appetite back and his plumbing is functional. There is light in his eyes. He has resurrected himself. This morning there was a brilliant sunrise. Then the fog settled in again. Jack hangs on.

There is something faster than the speed of light: the speed of darkness.

The Royal Flush Shit Show

Balls to it all. The night is over. Let’s look to the sunrise.

Never buy camouflaged slippers. I spend half my evenings looking for them. One is starting to curl up. I am a bit annoyed. I paid ten dollars for the garden slug green rubber numbers in the East Kootenays just last summer!

Meanwhile, here in Ladysmith on Christmas Eve afternoon, it has begun to snow. Huge white soggy biscuits of the stuff. Many kids will be overwhelmed with joy right now but this seasoned old winter driver is staying home. In a hillside town loaded with wide-eyed folks careening about, it’s best to hunker down when the world is covered in this white grease. It may be pretty but it’s dead dangerous especially with all the other drivers out there who don’t get it. While I’ve pecked out this paragraph, a second call to arms from the fire hall siren has wailed out. Another wreck. Nothing like giving a potentially covid-infected stranger mouth to mouth.

Six days later, it’s still snowing. Shoveling snow is good exercise but I’d rather be floating down some Mexican beach like Bo Derek. You could call my version of the film “3,” or perhaps “Thump”. My wife has been horribly ill with a massive gastric affliction. I’ll avoid the graphic details and yes, we’re sure it’s not Covid-49 or any other deadly version. She’s had eight days of intense “cleansing” but I wouldn’t recommend this as a weight loss adventure. The title of this blog is a quote from her. Still, every time these days that you sniffle, cough or fart you find yourself wondering is this IT?

How I spent my winter vacation, hanging on.

… And a kite in a maple tree. Jack has responded to the snow like the puppy heart he’ll always be.

We do live in strange times. In a local pharmacy cashier’s line-up I thought I had misread a label on a toy. The item was a tiny plastic dog, with a push-stick which fit into its back. It had four stiff legs and a wheel between the front two. There was a packet of tiny plastic treats you fed into its mouth. Then apparently, it fired them out a tiny orifice beneath the tail. There was a little scoop to pick them out. Really! The toy was named something like “furRealPoopalot.” I almost bought it. “Mommy what’s that old man playing with?” You can order them through Amazon. Go ahead, I know you want one! Next there will be a “Covid Collie”. There’s no limit to profit possibilities. Maybe we could form a “Poopsalot support group.”

A yarding session. I remember days like this. Walking the rolling logs covered in slippery snow, you are braced for the sudden icy plunge while wearing heavy caulk boots. Wherever you have to lay down to immerse your arms in the burning cold water there is probably a large pie of seal shit. It’s the romance of the sea.

Now it’s New Year’s Eve. We’ve had several snowy days and the temperature has plummeted to a horrific -4° C. Every year someone proclaims this one an especially severe winter but I remember ones far worse than this, like the one when it snowed four feet in one night ( I have photos) or the winter in the late eighties when the February temperature went down as far as – 20°C for several dayss while the wind howled incessantly. I don’t recall BC Ferries missing crossings because of extreme cold then. I would describe this as a normal coastal winter. Folks need drama and apparently Covid is not enough. This afternoon we’re under a thick blanket of snow and a wind chill of – 12°C. But it’s OK, we’ll forget.

Watchers. Bald Eagles confirm a late salmon run.

By anyone’s estimation it is a good year to put behind us, let’s call it a learning experience and move on. Hopefully the next is one when we all have someone to love, something to do and something to look forward to. There really is nothing more, it’s that simple.

Happy New Year.

If you don’t think you can be happy, or at least content, try missing a few days. It’s the only moment you’ve got. Avoid dancing on tables and remember that hangunders are always worse than the one before. Being pissed as a newt is no way to start the next year. We all make plenty enough bad decisions sober!

Winterhood. The engine hood of the ‘Hemoth’ reveals a frosty beauty.

When your ship comes in, don’t be at the airport.

“Deep breaths are very helpful at shallow parties.” Barbara Walters