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Where there are trees and true wilderness there are eagles.
In a recent post I considered dedicating one blog entirely to the forest in this region. Here it is.
I am intrigued with the forest that grows here. With thin soil, often bare rock, long months of gloom and darkness, pounding wind and incessant rain it is a harsh life for any living thing. Yet the coastal geography is lush and verdant. These trees have adapted to this climate and cover the steep country with an often impenetrable jungle. They survive endless cold and wet, snow, fog, droughts, insects and the rape of humankind. They live on.
There is mystery in everything here. How can forests grow like this? What is within the thick underbrush? How did the native peoples find sustenance here? What’s around the next point? It all goes on and on. This is where the vast North Pacific Ocean meets the hard edge of a continent that runs eastward for thousands of miles
A sacred elder. In the background, a family of loons practised their lonely calls.
All that beauty as well as the mystery always around the next corner.
These branches are some of the first to catch the wind and rain as it arrives from the open Pacific.
The stone dodo. With a little imagination, this monolith looks like a giant stone bird watching outward from the shoreline.
Walter Islet, near Port Blackney. The forest manages a firm grasp every place possible.
This islet is only a few hundred metres from a cove where Captain Vancouver careened his vessel and took on a deck-load of spars.
Beneath a Sitka Spruce at the edge of a beach.
Hot out there, is was cool and lovely in the shade.
Deep in the forest, a tiny meadow, filled with fragrant ferns, is a refuge where deer come to rest and feed.
‘Seafire’ anchored far in the distance at the back end of Blair Inlet.
After a long war with the sea for a bit of border, this cedar died to leave its beautiful bones on display.
Mutant Warrior Tree
Where a giant fell. This rotting stump is evidence of the glory of the old-growth forest. The notch is where a springboard was inserted to cut the tree above the hollow base. Then with axe and saw, men worked like termites to bring the monster to the ground. Then the tree would be cut up, by hand, into manageable logs which were winched to the sea where they could be towed away to distant sawmills.
No burial here. This log was abandoned as economically unviable. Under the moss, the old cedar is still wood is still sound and makes excellent shingles.
In the quiet of the fallen forest, there is a sense of life and a feeling of being watched.
A Troll’s Den.
Is this a portal to a dark underworld where gremlins and trolls and nasty creatures lurk?
Mutant and struggling, new trees try to replace their ancestors
Some nights, under the light of the moon, and with a moaning wind, the trees and strange nocturnal creatures with bright eyes swayed and chanted and danced. Those who dared to trespass there in those hours were never seen again.
The rain slowly becoming forest and ocean. The rocks slowly becoming forest and soil. The ocean slowly becoming rain.
Each day the sun rested after infusing its energy in the transformation of the elements of ocean, wind, rain, land and forest.
Which way is up?
A voice whispered, “Plunge into the sky.”
And so they did, soon finding themselves emerging into a beautifully different world.
Finally one day, the guardian said, “There are things which must be. I must stay, you must leave.”
“Cruising has two pleasures. One is to go out in wider waters from a sheltered place. The other is to go into a sheltered place from wider waters.” ……. Howard Bloomfield