I Wonder

The real thing.
A genuine carved canoe and a thing of beauty. Even the seats are fitted in a traditional way. Note the carving marks inside and the repair.
Boats? Ya wanna see boats? They’re out there, from kayaks to deep-sea bulkers like the ‘Atlantic Buenavista’. Anchored in the Pacific with Panamanian registry and a Filipino crew. Think global.
The ‘Providence’ apparently on a day charter. She’s one of my favourite local oldtimers.

Lately I’ve caught myself bending toward writing rants about local social injustices. I have just deleted an entire page that was snow-balling toward a collision with the thought police. I have also reminded myself that my ire was being based solely on information from the media. Recent experience with the emu and the policeman once again confirmed the inaccuracy of news stories. What was reported and what I saw while experiencing the actual story in first person were rather different. Once I worked with a colleague to rebuild a British DeHavilland 1936 Mk I Tiger Moth which belonged to a local doctor where we lived in a remote Rocky Mountain community. The media got wind of the story and soon was reporting about a British doctor who flew mercy missions in his antique biplane. The account was absolute fabricated rubbish. If the story had a dog sled lashed to one wing it could not have been more ridiculous. My point is about how we tend to form opinions based on what we are fed by the media and how we can get fighting mad over gross inaccuracies and blatant lies. So, chill out dude!

Land fall. A day trip in a traditional sloop-rigged boat, roller-furled notwithstanding.
Sea foam! Whahoo! My little boat is very fast. In our wood-infested waters a sharp lookout is requisite at all times. Tohatsu outboards, in this old marine-tech’s opinion are unbeatable.

When I finished high school I was offered a journalism scholarship. I am happy to report that I took a summer job and instead turned it into a career. Still I recall the five W’s. Who, what, why, where, when. Those foundations for all journalism seem to have gone into the ditch. I sometimes watch TV news stories and am not informed of where or when the event occurred. Sometimes the reporter’s name is not given. Creative interpretations of an event are offered which have nothing to do with an objective coverage of the truth. I am enraged when a person who has just lost a child or spouse is grieving in front of a camera. That is wholly irresponsible and unconsciously gormless.

A Crested Cormorant, aka Shagpoke, peers out of its sandstone pocket cave at a rookery on Tent Island.
Just another shitty day. These birds eat nothing but fish. On a hot day the air gets a bit tangy.
Living high at the Guano Estates. This is a natural sandstone cliff which the birds use a convenient nesting sites. Guano is the polite term for copious amounts of seabird droppings. Harvesting it and shipping it around the world was once a booming trade. It made potent fertilizer and also nitrate explosive. Perhaps hence the term “Booming.” !!??
Cormorantiniums. White-washed the old fashioned way.
I can’t ever get enough of our stunning waterline sandstone formations.
A cliff-side swing made from a venerable Arbutus tree.

Clearly, media’s first priority is to entertain. Tabloid mentality cares little about honesty and accuracy. Get ratings, sell ads, abandon truth and accuracy. We swallow it all as sugar-coated dung. If I interview you saying that you like little boys who are kind to animals, respectful of their parents and old people but I quote you as saying that you “Like little boys,” have I been honest or ethical? There are two important federal elections coming up in North America. The drums are already beating. Remember nature’s simple formula of two ears, two eyes, one mouth.

A friend in the US sent me some political statistics. I’m always suspicious of numbers put forward by anyone. We all know how they can be manipulated to serve an argument in any direction. One figure however, leapt out at me. The US has 5% of the world’s population and 66% of the world’s lawyers. There’s something to chew on! I’ve often considered lawyers to be a breed of parasite that has a life cycle which needs to make enough profit to get into politics. Once in office they make more laws which in turn justifies more lawyers.

Just one more.
Yeah, you! We have plenty of harbour seals, always timid, always endearing. Some say they are to blame for reduced fish stocks, I think their presence, as well as seabirds, is a sign of plenty of fish. They don’t live on popcorn. There was a time when there were many more seals, whales, sea birds and….loads of fish. You figure it out. Yeah you!

Yesterday the weather was fair, the wind was calm. I was long overdue to renew my grasp on certain points of reality. In the wake of selling ‘Seafire’ I had the opportunity to purchase a very nice used inflatable boat. A local shop was having a sale on new outboard motors and for the first time in my life I splurged and bought one. No more tinkering with some else’s cast-offs. The new motor, of course, had a few glitches but I’ve sorted them out and can confidently leave the shore. I have a boat which I can deflate and roll-up to transport with me wherever I go. It is very safe, so long as I stay inside it. That can be difficult in lumpy waters, the boat is very rough-riding but everything is a compromise and, that is what life jackets and harnesses are for. Any day on the water, rough or not, is better than a smooth day ashore. It was wonderful to spend a few hours exploring little nooks I’ve passed by for years. The photos are all from yesterday.

Jungle letter box.
This old log stood on end above the little beach where I took my lunch break. Postal Station F, Penalakut Island.
Red Right Returning. Huh?
This canal, dug between Clam Bay and Telegraph Harbour separates Thetis Island, on the north, from Penalakut Island. It has mostly filled-in again but provides a handy shortcut for little boats at high tide.
The old man’s gig. I’ve always been a bit sceptical of the tough but thin skin of an inflatable boat between me and the deep cold sea. The convenience of portability is weighed against the danger of tears and punctures along the shore. Still, I wish my own skin were this durable. This is an Achilles, made in Japan of a material called Hypalon. It is famously rugged…and expensive. There are thousands of protected nooks among the Gulf Islands where you can find some tranquility.

Being on a boat that’s moving through the water, it’s so clear. Everything falls into place in terms of what’s important and what’s not.” … James Taylor

Serenity And Sweaty Things

An old friend. ‘Seeker Of Truth’ was found by a friend languishing in a Vancouver Island barn. He restored and renamed it and eventually put her up for sale. I was sorely tempted. She was built in Norway in the early 1900’s and is a lovely example of a well built and maintained wooden boat.  With a little love she’ll live at least another century. Carved on a bulkhead below in Norwegian is a legend which translates: “A man without a boat is a prisoner.” Too true! Too true!
Not so long ago poor people lived by the sea and ate fish. Note that in mid-summer the dock is not in use. Perhaps this is the autumn cottage?
Not far away, another reality beside our abandoned island railroad.

Last blog I offered a cryptic squint at modern policing attitudes. I must add this. Four years ago a habitual drunk in a pickup truck careening through a suburb of Victoria ran a red light and rammed a police car broadside. He fatally mashed a police officer. The victim was a woman and a mother. Her husband still grieves, especially now. The sentence handed down for this horrific tragedy was a mere four years. However we may each value our human lives that punishment seems cavalier to say the least. That the victim was a RCMP constable on duty should perhaps be irrelevant but four years for wilfully dangerous and violent, mortal irresponsibility is a horrific insult to us all. It trivializes the value of everyone’s life.

The anchor for my next boat.
YEAH RIGHT!
My experience says that Rocnas, a product of New Zealand, are an ultimate anchor. This 55 pound, polished stainless steel beauty will hold a very big vessel.

I stand by my concerns about jaded and arrogant police attitudes but I also grasp how crushing it must be for all officers when they are so demeaned by a casual judicial system. It also helps me empathize a bit better with the policeman’s lot. Small wonder they become bitterly hardened in the face of such crass dismissals of what they endure while trying to do their duty, no matter how they perceive what that might be.

Disposable income, a 1930 Packard. On the wide whitewall tires is a n inscription which says “High Speed, Gum-Dipped”
The rumble seat. Complete with its own folding windshield there’s enough room to sleep comfortably beneath the hinged cowling. Nope, no air bags!

By the way, friendly comments about my last blog suggest that I “Stay out of trouble.” All I’ll say in response is this. Name me one of your heroes or anyone else the world remembers who stayed out of trouble! C’mon now, just one name!

August path. The alder leaves emit a lovely fragrance when walked on.
August browns. A sign of things to come.
The leaky pipe grows the grass. Part of the water supply for our local pulp mill. These wooden pipe lines run for miles. Superb engineering, some of these pipes are several feet in diameter. This one is only about two feet.
Bookends. These two young lovely brothers were new friends we met on the trail.
A first I thought I was bending down to photograph a ladybug. I don’t know what this cleverly coloured beasty is.

Summer is rushing past. Dried leaves fall and carpet the trails. Over-ripe blackberries ferment and drunken wasps buzz in your face. Tiny songbirds are flocking up and feeding voraciously in preparation for long southward migrations. Second cuttings of hay on local farms have been baled and stored away. Local markets and roadside stalls overflow with fresh local produce. Back-to-school ads flood the media. It seems I was just posting photos of early spring buds. The seasons whirl by. Peter Fonda, the baby-faced biker just died. He was 89!

In the Bogwump. Nothing lives forever. There is beauty in all things if you care to look.

I was shocked to realize that the classic and iconic movie, ‘Easy Rider’ was first seen back in my high school days, an entire lifetime ago. That was over half a century! When you start measuring your own life in those terms, well, you know the jokes about buying green bananas.

Beauty by the dollar. Tugboats, logs, booms, barges, chains, cables, cranes were once a chapter in my life. I am now angered that any wood is exported. This barge load of small second-growth timber is destined for somewhere in the US. Each bundle of wood is a truckload. There is a lot of 2x4s and pulp in that mountain. Logs are boomed in bundles or in flat “swifter” booms as in the foreground. Close your eyes, smell the diesel exhaust, wood aroma in the sun, and seal and otter droppings.  Elixer!

I’ve never written a bucket list; I’ve just lived it. The greatest anticipations are yet to be experienced. I’ve learned to quit wringing my hands about things like politics. I still constantly prod people to think, think for themselves but I’ve also realized the wisdom of the old Alcoholics Anonymous mantra: “God grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Or, as George Carlin put it, “Don’t sweat the petty things, and don’t pet the sweaty things.”

Dali Rocks. Jack and I love taking the dinghy and exploring the sandstone reefs and shorelines of our area. These sandstone formations are an eternal fascination for me.
Jack surveys his kingdom. He’s showing his years but my dear friend still has a grand sense of adventure.

This blog’s photos are local grab shots taken in the last few days.

Look into my eye. I photographed this wee beauty just a few minutes ago. It was basking under a neighbour’s vehicle. It was a whole six inches in length.
Another sign of the season. Wee button fungi begin to appear. It seems a mouse may have had a nibble.
Breathe.

A dear friend and fellow sailor presently visiting the Thor Heyerdahl Museum in Oslo Norway has just e-mailed me this:

Borders? I have never seen one, but I have heard that they exist in the minds of some people.”

… Thor Heyerdahl

The Bird Pride Parade

Dog Day Afternoon, between a rock and a wet place.  Jack takes a break in the shade and contemplates a dip in the river while out on his daily walk.
Moving on. The season passes. Fruit and berries ripen, flowers go to seed,  plagues of spiders have begun to appear, crickets have started their songs which will only end with first frosts. Seize the day!

I once wrote an article about four levels of competence. It was within a series of essays about coastal navigation requested by a local yachting magazine. They never printed that piece. I think what I wrote was too offensive to their valued advertisers. So be it.

Those four levels start at the bottom and rise from not knowing even how little we grasp about how to do something. This skill level is often accompanied with a lot of condescending tones and braggadocio. “Empty wagons rattle the most,” is something this old farm boy tries to remember.

Most of us rise at least to the second level where we become aware of how little we know and begin considering how to improve. We become quite humble in the face of that awareness and mechanically perform the basic steps. Have you known the pain of trying to learn to play a musical instrument?

The third level is when we are finally able to perform to some point of satisfaction but still seek to improve ourselves and often need to consciously think about the skills we are employing. We’ve learned to respect rather than envy others who possess a competence we strive for.

The fourth level is achieved with experience and practice when we can finally do something intuitively. I’ve become fairly adept at sitting in this chair.

Deep woods relief and a little shade by a stream. A simple thing can be so sweet.
Canadian dust no doubt…eh?

Here’s my drift; if you’re still with me. I’ve recently had two bemusing moments with the local constabulary in recent weeks. The first incident found me in handcuffs while going to the local Post Office. I’d always wondered what that must feel like. I was simply parking my truck. Another fellow was also trying to park and making a very poor job of it even after repeated attempts. I waited hoping he would settle. Embarrassed perhaps, he began shouting at me, asking if I had a problem. When I replied “yes” he responded by asking what was wrong. At that point my terse answer, without thinking, was that he was blocking the “F…ing road.”

Then all hell broke loose from behind the Post Office across the street. It turns out to have been a young cop interrogating a woman there about her boyfriend whom he’d just taken to jail. (No further comment on why he’d later share that information.) Crossing the street to get the mail and angling past him, his harangue continued. I suggested that he appeared to be plenty busy enough without spreading his efforts so thinly. He was enraged. I was arrested, hand-cuffed and stuffed into the back of his vehicle. Eventually the cuffs were removed and I was threatened with charges of disturbing the peace, road rage and uttering profanities in public. Yes, really!

He even had the audacity to mention the size of my wrists and how difficult hand-cuffing me had been. He wanted to know what my occupation was. I so badly wanted to say that I was a retired cop and had spent a lot of time playing with my gun. No, I did not. The handcuffs hurt like hell and I bore deep welts on my wrists for several hours.

Constable Zealous refused to acknowledge that he had not interviewed all those witness to my heinous behaviour nor had he noticed the traffic problem and who was shouting. After a half-hour of acrimonious debate I actually received a vague apology once I’d pointed out that he had a rage issue about being challenged and that his job did not involve being any sort of interpretive judicial system. Of course if I’d just kept my pie-hole shut there would have been no problem. I often remind myself of Don Ruiz’s four agreements: I will respect the power of my words, I will take nothing personally, I will assume nothing, I will always do my best.

Old school policing. Actually, a year ago, this was a movie set on main street, Ladysmith. Whatever happened to the movie, ‘Sonic The Hedgehog’ is a mystery. The sets were amazing, right down to the Montana license plates. A block of downtown was painted over in a day, and then painted back to original colours in another day.

From a skewed perspective I can see how I broke all those rules in my police moment but damnit, sometimes you have to stand up for what’s right. That’s the problem with Canadians, we are just too polite to the point of enduring all manner of abuses, even from people on our payroll: politicians, bureaucrats, civil servants. They are sworn to serve us, not to try forcing us to bend to their will. We’ve forgotten who’s supposed to be in control. I could easily begin to rant about how Canada is insidiously becoming a police state while we blissfully ignore the obvious. But, if you can’t see it, I’m not about to try penetrating your comfort zone.

I have no desire to be a policeman, not for any salary. It is a thankless task, fraught with danger, stress, frustration and hopefully, at times, guilt and is at most times subject to contempt from the taxpayer….. until, of course, they need to dial 911. There are life and death decisions to be made in an instant and no-one always gets it right no matter how much training they may have had. It is intolerable however when a police officer is arrogant, rude and assumptive. I will not endure derogatory tones from anyone, even a goon with a gun. “To serve and protect” dude! Friends who are retired RCMP members admit some embarrassment that they once wore the uniform. One retiree said that in consideration of the modern police force the only difference between it and motorcycle gangs is that the police have better resources. “They’re all thugs.” Strong words indeed. I do appreciate the job they try to do. I repeat that I don’t want it. I know I’m just too reactive.

I’ve made it to this point in my life without ever tangling with the police. There were, of course, times when I deserved to have been. I can’t remember my last traffic ticket and the last time I interacted with police was to help apprehend a severely impaired driver. A good thing I think.

My objection is that the prevalent police attitude I see, and hear about, is that they know more than everyone about everything at all times. That apparent insecurity is a dangerous thing for someone so heavily armed and so constantly under stress. A little contrition could go a long way. So, back to the four levels of competence and the four agreements.

On a recent morning Jack and I were driving to one of our favourite walking locations. We fetched up at the back of a small parade creeping along the road. A police car headed the procession with flashing lights. Well, actually it became apparent that an emu was heading the parade. It was high-stepping down the centre of the pavement and making a good four knots to windward.

If you’re being run out of town, get to the front of the crowd and make it look like a parade.

Eventually big bird decided to make a u-turn and headed back toward town in the opposite lane. I saw a photo opportunity coming my way and perhaps a chance to help corner the outbound oiseau. The cop, now in mid u-turn began to bellow on his loudhailer. “GET-BACK-IN-YOUR-VEHICLE!”

Just what an over-wrought monster bird needed! The officer pulled alongside and angrily admonished me: “That bird has toes ya know!” He was clearly frustrated with the whole humiliating situation. It never occurred to him that perhaps I may have displayed some confidence with good reason. I do understood that in his eyes I was just another nuisance idiot in need of salvation from himself. I do actually have a little experience with these creatures which are indeed powerful kick-boxers known to have readily disemboweled people who get too close. A former farm boy, ranch hand, and rodeo dude I’ve also been in pens with angry horned cattle, kicking biting horses, tusky boars. You develop a savvy for critters, but not when they’re being pursued by bellowing policemen in hot pursuit and I was not about to offer my resumé.

The jogger. No Reeboks.  Can emus laugh?

The emu made it onto the evening TV news. It turns out his name is Parker. He is from a local farm and a repeat escape artist. Eventually the police blockaded the road for a half-hour and then tasered old Parker before “subduing” him. He’s none the worse for wear with nary a singed feather. Fortunately for Birdy Boy there was not enough cranberry sauce on hand for a barby and happily no “Conservation” officers were involved. When they show up, despite their title, something invariably gets shot. Parker survived unscathed and is back on the right side of the fence plotting his next adventure. So, choose your own closing line:

– Keep your pecker up/ Keep your eye on the bird/ The beat goes on/ drumsticks!

The long arm of the mouse, thick wrists and all. This is a result of a slamming box lid. it required surgical attention today. Good thing there have been no more handcuffs! The book and the author are amazing, Urrea has fast become one of my favourite  writers.
“Go ahead, step on it. Not my tail!”
“Right then. Try it again and you’ll get a licking to remember!”
Good music at the Duncan Farmer’s Market. This is a popular local weekly event in the Cowichan Valley where baking, preserves, produce, wine and handcrafts are showcased.
Lapstrake and lyrics. The singer was as good as the skiff was beautiful. Built at a local boat school, it was being raffled off. Good boats are pleasing to the eye from all angles.
The bow and the bouquet. A lovely comment on the incredible valley where I live.
Spellbound. Another moment at the market.
Whoosh! Jack and I have a favourite walk at the north end of the local airport. Here is a Navigation Canada aircraft on short final, gear down and locked, check….Good old mobile phone!
Whoosh! There are so many ways to direct the same script (Google up the short film “Room 8”)

The police are the public and the public are the police; the police being only members of the public who are paid to give full time attention to duties which are incumbent on every citizen in the interests of community welfare and existence.”

…Robert Peel

Crow Song

Ripe for the taking. Feral grapes, plums and blackberries. There are plenty more, come again tomorrow.

I muse on this every year. Each blackberry season the berries do not ripen all at once. If they did, most of the harvest would go to waste. The berries ripen in sequence, so that each day there are more newly-perfect delicious treats. A person can go back every day, or every few, and pick a fresh crop of tasty bliss. The vines amortize themselves. People and birds both have an ongoing feast through the month of August and often well into September. The untouched berries left over eventually dry on the vine and become winter stores. Some fall on the ground to sprout in the next year but most feed the birds for a good while after the first frosts. Among that macramaed tangle of formidable stalks, rabbits and other creatures find refuge through the seasons from predators. In spring, tender new plants springing up from the fallen seeds provide fresh nourishment for those furry wee beasts which will soon give birth to their own progeny. Their droppings, in turn, help fertilize the thorny thickets. Nothing goes to waste. No one could manage any human endeavour quite as well.

I beg myself to know what it is that naturally occurs among mindless thorny vines to manage their assets when I don’t have a clue about managing mine. I never have. I don’t even have many left to manage. I have made and lost fortunes. Maybe, as the tide turns, I will have finally learned something. In my advancing years I find myself skint beyond any way of describing my pathetic situation. My finances have always been a tumbling hairball of advance and retreat, bad management, bad luck, bad timing and bad choices in general. I am aware of a deeply embedded sub-conscious need to self destruct and I know there were values and practices taught, and not taught, in my formative years. I am not blaming anyone else but I sure wish I’d learned values other than work hard, spend hard, fall hard. The chapters in my book about working smart just haven’t ever been there. Despite all my personal insights, I have managed to arrive a place in my life where I just don’t have the energy to start over yet again but I do not want to dig the hole that I am in one spoonful deeper. Enough! I’ve burned myself up in every sense clambering through the vicious cycles of my life’s game of ‘Snakes and Ladders.’

A patch of light. what a joy to amble with Jack through the rain forest on a summer morning.

I have no love of wealth, I manage to eliminate any I come across. However, money is a tool everyone in this culture needs to do the things that give their life meaning, security and direction. It is all about choices. I’ve never understand how to make make more money with what you already have. All I’ve known is to work myself like a donkey and spend whatever I bring in before someone else gets their claws on it. My body and soul are now worn past the point of being able to continue doing what I know and no-one seems willing to hire someone for their experience alone. That sense of being discarded onto the big pile of worn-out shovels does nothing to inspire confidence and self-faith. There are many people around me who are smarter, skilled in financial strategy,yet  who are in the same bin as myself despite all their cleverness. They have risen higher and fallen further. They perhaps once offered smug advice to others about managing their affairs. That awareness leaves me feeling no better. And so there you have it, a great mystery called life. I am not complaining, just explaining. And yes, I know what Einstein said about repeating an effort and expecting different results: insanity.

A cool change. A little low cloud for a while on an August morning as yachts sail out to their day. I WILL be out there again.

I also know that fortunes can change in a flash. Negative mental energy will bring more darkness; positive thinking and activity lead toward light and goodness. Each energy feeds on itself. The trick is finding the empowerment to jump aboard the right train, not in front of it nor beneath it. There is always risk involved in anything worthwhile. “You can’t get at the fruit without going out on the limb.” I have wonderful creative skills and even a sense of mission about what to do with those endowments. The doldrums where I find myself at present, are they the eye of a hurricane? Will the wind suddenly reverse and blow me in the opposite direction? Staying hove-to and waiting for that shift is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Doing nothing is a terrific challenge. The wisdom of the old sailor is to know when to put the helm down and sail on again. God grant me that knowledge.

This morning, while walking with Jack the dog, a crow sat on a limb above me and performed a strange self-grooming dance all the while singing a piece of crow-rap gibberish. Or was it offering a message, which in my self-absorbed misery, I am too out of tune to understand? Being in tune with nature is intrinsically important to me. Fitting in with the human world around me means little other than having the tools to go where I feel led. Later, after hours of pondering, it occurred to me that that was the message. I’ve lost touch and it is time to get my beak out of my belly button and flap my wings.

A right proper bloomer!

So why am I bothering to write this? Everyone has their own gig to deal with. I know that there are many other folks living in desperate circumstances. There is no comfort in that knowledge. Our current history is being written as a grand, global, widening deliberate division between the poor and the wealthy. The middle class faces a holocaust. My mission in life, which I’ll admit I tend to forget at times, is to put a little light in other people’s eyes. If I can take a positive note from the call of the crow, then perhaps I can make the flame of someone else’s flickering light flame a little brighter, help them make it through their night.

If it rains before they’re picked……limbs will break.
Bumper crop!

Like manna from heaven, a few hours later while flipping through YouTube, I found this. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBaHPND2QJg The video was made in Sabadell, Catalonia. The music is Beethoven’s ‘Ode To Joy.’ This flash mob performance made me shiver. In a time when the news seems to be about yet another mass-shooting and in Canada, a bizarre manhunt which has ended with a total of five deaths, this is something worth sharing with everyone. There is hope; even when we cannot see it. Namaste.

Now here’s that crow. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJB5fEuCGFI

The wooden schooner ‘Alcyone’ in a golden moment many years ago, skipper Sugar Flanagan on the helm. Even the most beautiful ship started out simply as someone’s dream. Where might ours take us?

Much of human behaviour can be explained by watching the wild beasts around us. They are constantly teaching us things about ourselves and the way of the universe, but most people are too blind to watch and listen.”

– Suzy Kassem


Perceptions

Two men and a boy. While reviewing my photo files I came on this image which I had gleaned from a magazine article about Brixham trawlers. They were sailed by “Two men and a boy,” hence the impression . What is uncanny to me is that the boy looks amazingly just like me at that age.
  Business first.  So to the complaint department: In the recent formatting changes of this blog, the comment box at the bottom disappeared. In its place, at the top right had corner, above the theme photo is a button called “Get In Touch.” That’s the new and improved way for contact and comment. If you’re like me any change in any cyber system is baffling. That’s why the dinosaurs disappeared. They could not assimilate a changing environment quickly enough.

And now some advertising. Folks often tell me how they like my photographs. I love flattery. (It is something I’ve been doing for over fifty years and yes, I do miss film cameras and the old darkroom days.) Anyway, I’ve recently discovered a site called Fine Art America.com, FAA for short.  I’ve joined up and now have posted over five hundred of my images from my digital photo archives. You can buy any of my work there, (or other artists of several disciplines) reproduced in many ways such as canvas prints, framed prints, shower curtains, T shirts, hand bags, duvet covers, coffee mugs and so forth. I receive only a pittance of each sale but it is great exposure for my work and a fantastic gift idea for anyone. There is an image to please anyone. Many of the photos which have appeared in this blog are available. Of course, folks can always contact me directly through this blog, or any of the popular social medias. I may have something to please your specific heart’s desire. Be warned, In future I will regularly flog this site on my blog. A direct link is now in the ads column on the top right hand of this page. End of commercial, we now return to the regular blogging program.

I spent many hours in front of my computer editing my photo files, posting images and their descriptions one at time time. It was truly a pain in the ass after sitting day after day. But now I have an online portfolio, a true love-me effort I am rather proud of. Between digital images, slides and negatives, I cannot guess how many thousands of images I have squirrelled away from all my years messing around with cameras.

I also signed in with Face book, LinkedIn, and with Twitter. Haar! Now I can exchange views directly with Donald. Considering that I have to drive to cross US borders twice to get to Mexico, I know that I do not want to deal with Homeland Insecurity if there is any sort of dark marks on file. Few of those folks appear to have any sense of humour and, I’ve learned,  do not appreciate my jokes or smart remarks. So... two ears, two eyes, one mouth. Yes sir, no sir.
Ladysmith, we keep our anchor clean. In the fountain in the roundabout at the foot of mainstreet, pranksters dumped some soap in the water. Now that we have a public bath, perhaps we can get a public washroom.
Chicory flower after some rain. Even weeds can be lovely.
Morning Glories twist around other plants and look up to the light. Another pretty weed I think.
Another weed. The little purple petals in the middle are intriguing.
On that note, I’ve just finished reading ‘Into The Beautiful North’ by Luis Alberto Urrea. He is a Mexican who clearly understands the illegal Mexican immigrant story.  This novel drew me eagerly forward with a wonderful account of young Mexican women smuggling themselves into the US in order to bring a few Mexican men back south of the border to protect their town from criminals. It is humorous, entertaining, insightful, and also a primer of Mexican Spanish and slang. I seldom recommend a book I’ve read but this one gets lots of stars from me. It certainly offers a fresh perspective to this gringo. This work enhances conversations and new insights I gained on my most recent trip down that way. There are certainly no valid black and white arguments once one begins to grasp all colours of the cross-border situation. Despite all the dark stories, I love it there and want to return as quickly as I can.

Perspectives are often misleading and a person may look back on a view eventually realizing how inaccurately life can be seen and believed. For example, when I was very young, my father who loved brass bands and so too the Salvation Army, parades and military tattoos, provided my with plenty of exposure to that sort of music. One of my childhood amazements was trombone players. I was gobsmacked, how when playing their horns, they could slide that long brass tube up and down their throats without ever flinching. I was convinced they were as talented as sword swallowers.  I held no desire to play the trombone. 

We listened regularly to the local radio station CHWO 1250 AM, “White Oak Radio.” I had been shown the station itself which occupied the upper floor of a small brick building in town. I listened enthralled, wondering how in the hell all those bands, orchestras, singers and musicians passed through that place, up and down the stairs, without ever making a sound. I waited interminably for someone to drop their cymbals, or cough, but nothing, always nothing. I believed all music in the radio studio was live. I knew nothing about recordings, we certainly kept none at home. My perceptions have changed.

Often we believe something as solid fact which is actually unfounded and inaccurate. A part-truth is as good as a lie. We are immersed with a daily avalanche of information from the media. In their need to constantly produce a quota of content we are often under an overdose of babble and speculation  until our brains are nearly exploding with a plethora of fiction. I watch folks sometimes come close to blows over a certainty about what they have gleaned from public news sources, the clergy, politicians, the weatherman or some other uninformed opinion either deliberate or accidental.

How many millions have died in wars and natural catastrophes believing God was on their side just as their enemy also did? Throughout history hype masters and spin doctors have determined what someone else wants us to believe. Even I, a self-declared cynic, am stunned at how incredibly gullible I can often be. I recently saw a bumper sticker that said, “Don’t believe everything you imagine.” In other words, ask questions. Always.
Chihuahuas and weed flowers. You know you are getting older when you begin to appreciate the merits of each. I recently wrote an essay about these little dogs and their virtues.

The cave you fear to enter hides the treasures you seek. Joseph Campbell


	

Jack’s Back!

Jack’s Back!

That old sparkle which I worried I’d never see again is back. What a relief!
Back in the wade. Jack’s favourite bliss.

Jack is now on the mend. His nose is wet, his eyes are shiny and he is taking a full interest in life. He was near death it seemed. A wonderful vet came by in his mobile clinic and deduced that Jack had eaten something nasty while out on walk. With other dark clouds in my sky I was terrified that he wasn’t going to make it through the night only four days ago. My hope was thin. I am happy to report that he was out on the trail with me this morning sporting along almost like his old self again. I am deeply grateful to a wonderful veterinarian who brought his mobile clinic to the door, just the way things used to be done. Thank you Tom.

Wiggling on his back in a patch of fragrant grass is another joy.

While I am being thankful I cannot let my appreciation for the love and support of family and friends to go unmentioned. The last two weeks for me have been hellacious, the support has been life-sustaining. THANK YOU!

My RV for the moment. This newly-completed bike/walking trail is lovely and close to home. I’m working up to pedalling all the way to Chemainus, the next town, for a coffee and then pedalling back.
Downhill and up, shift down, shift up, pedal, coast.
Porter’s barn…well, it’s one of many on this very successful dairy farm. I love barns and how form and function can work together.

I am able to check statistics for my blog site. I know how many people have looked at each posting, what country on the planet they are in and how long folks on average have spent looking at each post. I’m sure there’s more I can learn but being the cyber-caveman I am; good enough!

I only have access to a viewer’s e-mail address when they contact me with a comment. I always reply to every one, even when it’s a criticism and I do stay respectful of other folk’s information. Always grateful for every interaction I’m always eager to hear from my readers. I’ve noted something interesting. Posts that draws the least views also produce the most comments. It is like a lottery. The higher the main prize, the more tickets sell and the odds rise to very, very thin odds. The latest blog drew comments about personal bicycle memories and concerns for Jack have also come in. Thank you!

As you may recall I recently had a local computer whiz tune-up this site. That man has two huge computer screens on his desk which he is able to work simultaneously. His hands flash over his keyboards and text heaps up before your eyes. He never looks at what his hands are doing. Half of his spelling is incorrect but at the end of each bit of writing he pokes a button. Everything is spell-checked, the punctuation is correctly arranged, line spacing and indents are perfect. That is amazing; yet I see the big possibility of mistakes which can go unnoticed, especially if the computer is thinking in American-English.

My old saw is the question about ‘checking your cheque book.’ I also know what happens when you become dependant on technology. You lose your basic skills. That is the reason I rail against using electronic navigation in the marine world. You should have the basic old-school knowledge in the back of your head if the Global Positioning System ever fails for any variety of reasons, including deliberate human intervention. Once you become dependant on anything, you quickly give up of freedom of self-reliance and in the case of writing, self-expression.

I have used the two index bananas on my gnarled paws to peck out two novels, several other books, copious poetry and musings. Each letter is typed one at a time and spelling errors are fixed as I go. I edit everything. I trim away all the ands, buts or other conjunctives I can. Should the same word be used twice to describe anything, I try to find another word to replace one of them. The art of good writing is to say as much as possible with as few words possible. Flowery just does not cut it.

I think of some of the world’s great writers who produced everything longhand with a dip pen and a candle for light. If you wanted to change a word or sentence, you’d have to rewrite the whole page. And, operating like I do, as you jotted down the final period, you’d manage to tip the ink pot over the whole manuscript. Haar again. But then with a computer, now and then some writing and photographs manage to vanish into the ether never to be seen again. “Oh golly,” I think to myself. Yeah right.

Quail’s Gate
Beside the trail. There’s always a photo if you care to look.
There’s one! A lone pedestrian ahead on the trail. I stopped to take a photo and let him go ahead. In the early morning, you should respect another’s serenity.
The shed out back. The forest never stops trying to reclaim itself.
The line forms on the left. Early morning, before the juice begins to flow. A young backyard entrepreneur has set up shop beside the trail. “A capitalist is just a socialist who’s found an opportunity.”

There is another “Phew.” I’ve finally made a decision about my little trailer. It is for sale as salvage. It is a hard decision but also a relief and a viable consideration. “First loss, best loss.” If the ducks line up for a rebuild I am open to options but at the moment, with no repair facilities, the economics of a major rebuild just did not add up from any angle. There is another home on wheels, a good one, out there somewhere with my name on it even as I write. Christmas in Baja…or bust. My dark drama may have come about, in part, because of my ingrained farm-boy sense of economics. It seems to be in my DNA, this life-long propensity to spend thousands of dollars trying to save dimes. But then, if I’d had spent more on a trailer it may also have been a write-off. Who knows? I’ve certainly gained a million dollars worth of experience.

Gift-wrapped. “Some boats are built to sail, most are built to sell.” … John Steinbeck           Trailers too!

I again employed my inept fiscal instincts today. I found my computer mouse laying on its back with its little feet in the air. Dead! Stopping by the local dollar store I proudly came home with a bargain mouse I’d bought for ten dollars. It worked, sort of. This afternoon I came out of the local computer store with a brand name product which works beautifully. So there you are. In my determination to be cheap, I’m now out the price of a piece of junk. Maybe I’ll throw it in with the trailer. That’ll clinch the deal!

And that’s the way I feel. I truly believe that dogs are one of man’s higher achievements

If you want to buy good, clean, fresh oats you must pay a fair price. Ones that have already been through a horse cost a bit less.” …anon.

CLUNK!

Ahhh. Rain! Taken an hour ago. Despite a long wet winter, all is already desperately, unseasonably dry.  The rain felt so good. Who knows? Maybe it will rain all summer.
Jack smells the flowers. Where I stood to take this photo is usually muddy year-round. Yesterday it was dusty.

I promise. ‘Seafire Chronicles’ will not become an ongoing diatribe against the RV industry. This posting will be the end of my whining and self-recriminations about my own incredible stupidity. Then it will be on with the next adventure. After realizing the terminal cancer in my sweet little trailer I began making a video about my folly. Something interesting thing happened. I was standing in front of the camera beginning to film what I was to name “Fun Finder Blues”. The light was wrong and I just couldn’t remember the lines I had rehearsed, even after several “takes.” While I was struggling with that I was approached by a fellow who told me how he had bought exactly the same model of trailer, brand-new, from a local RV dealer. His 2014 Fun Finder 189 was leaking rainwater inside before he got it home from the sales yard!

He had a hell of an ordeal with both dealer and factory before finally having it repaired by an independent shop and selling it, with a clear explanation of his bargain price, to a young couple. He was obviously a well-heeled, intelligent man who had also done his research before making his ill-fated purchase. By the way, should any of you locals need one, that shop is Adrian’s RV in Nanaimo. He comes with many high recommendations including mine. I felt slightly better to realize I was not the only sucker. So I wrote this:

There’s nowt as smart as an old buck

Until that old buck mucks up

Then he’s just a head on the wall

And a chump roast in the freezer.”

Humour, desperately needed as it may be, doesn’t resolve an issue. It does ease the pain a bit and certainly helps me make it through the day. Now, a week later, I’m very much older and a little bit smarter. I’ve picked up my custom order of new aluminum facing to which I had to commit. I bought it to expedite the repair of the trailer. There is a limited amount of time to store it in a space which had been graciously provided so I could make repairs. Ordering ahead seemed the clever thing to do at the time; especially when you live on an island. The invoice, quoted ahead of time, was almost twice what I expected and of course I’d forgotten about the sales tax. It just gets better and better! For once my usual prudence of being positively negative and assessing worst case scenarios has blown up in my face.

Just a few days ago I went to bed in here feeling snug and smug about about my lovely little trailer.  Jack cuddled up happily beside me and we never moved till dawn. Now it looks like a Taliban suicide bombers classroom. “Pay attention lads, I’ll only show you this once!”
Putting on a brave face. A temporary measure for storage or transport to the knacker’s yard or a place where I will perform a major rebuild.

As I pilot I can tell you there is a deadly situation called a spiral which most often occurs when you lose sight of the horizon. The aircraft accelerates downward in an ever- tightening turn until the aircraft disintegrates, usually when it hits the ground. The recovery procedure is to first recognize the situation as soon as possible, then pull back on the throttle, level the wings and gently but firmly reduce your speed by raising the nose. You need to avoid structural damage or entering a high-speed stall. How’s that for a metaphor? It will all seem funny when this story is in the distance and viewed through a rear-view mirror. “Pull up, pull up.”

There are some positive aspects. Imagine if this rot box had exploded or imploded somewhere on the rugged roads of Mexico or in a desert wilderness. Or, how about on an Interstate Highway as one of those behemoth trucks hurtled past pushing its wall of compressed air. I’d bet it happens from time to time. And I swear, that with my new awareness, I can now actually see self-destruction happening in very many trailers and motor homes.

I’ve decided that there was no point in wasting time putting together a video about low integrity and consumer rape when there are clearly so many other fools out there. Manufacturers clearly have all the conscience of politicians. The products excreted from their factories are marketed on the terms of bi-weekly payments. With the “Eat, drink and be merry” philosophy of our frantic culture, we fools do rush in so long as we can make the bi-weekly payments. So the marketing model becomes: “Eat crap, a billion flies can’t be wrong.”

I’ve done further research and I see now that most of these trailers are built the same way.

Losing face.The delamination on the faces of both these trailers is obvious.
Boink, boink, boink. Now I can see the problem  on trailers everywhere. On metal-sided trailers it is much harder to see, sometimes until you fall through the rotted floor!

Here is a link to a short YouTube video where the Jayco Trailer Company proudly displays how they throw together thirty-two trailers a day, each one in about six hours. The workers run like raped apes, easily showing why one should never buy this product. This video is one of the most counter-productive marketing tools ever. Why it is posted at all raises some obvious questions. But then, there a lot of fools out there, like me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jXMJrRQ3SVk

It made me recall an RV salesman once eagerly telling me how what he was trying to sell was made by the “Mennonite folk, quality indeed,” he assured me although I could the ground through holes in the inside storage lockers of a virgin trailer. In the above video some costumes and hair styles prove some folks of that persuasion do indeed work in these plant. That is very sad. Their faith was once synonymous with integrity.

Well enough already! It is time for me to heave-to and see which way the wind will blow. Then I can fall off onto the proper tack to get where I am going. Negativity feeds on itself and so does being positive. Always in life the first/best resource is a good attitude and so I’ll try to go that way. But damn! It’s hard.

Woody! One of the joys of NOT owning a boat is that you still see the beauty but do none of the work, especially on wooden boats. Now I can wander down the dock, hands in pockets, accosting boat-owners bent to their tasks and say things like,”Work, work, work, it never bloody ends!” This is a gorgeous wee vessel from the days when it would have been a grand yacht by the standard of its day.

My ongoing Keto diet is still working even though I cheat a bit. There is already enough manic action in my script without any more self-imposed strictness. One of the reasons I didn’t like what I was recording on video is that I think I look older as I lose pounds. I’m half-way to my targeted lower mass but worry and depression are not part of a recommended weight loss program. I need to stay busy. I can’t seem to find a job and I’m not feeling especially creative. One of the reasons I take so many photos and make videos is to stay in touch with the amazing beauty all around us. When you stop seeing that, you are half-way dead. I live in a beautiful place. Folks from around the world travel to see Vancouver Island. The trick is to keep on seeing the raw beauty while you live here. Ladysmith sits on the northern lip of the Cowichan Valley. I have easy access to both forest and ocean all around me. The weather is perfect, hot and dry already, and so it’s boots and saddles. C’mon Jack!

Old Jack spots a rabbit. Note the deep concern of his prey.

And so…on to the next adventure.

Last evening, while sitting in front of the goon box watching a movie about a pug, of all things, a rat suddenly ran in through the open door. He was a big bugger! He scuttled back and forth along two walls of the living room with his little feet pattering loudly. We closed the door so he could not escape and then shut Jack in a bedroom. A Keystone Cops routine ensued as old ‘El Gordo’ here pulled out furniture from the walls, all the while trying to keep Rodney the rodent from moving further into the home. I seized a short chunk of two by four from the garage and finally herded the wee beast into a corner. Clunk! He was promptly dispatched to the big cheese in the sky. Me, the once-great hunter, felt both sympathy and empathy for this fellow creature of the universe. I understood, all too well, those horrible long moments within the terror of entrapment and realizing a mistake I could not reverse.

Ain’t life strange? You’ve got to laugh.

The path in the glen. This is a favourite spot on a local walking trail. Who knows where the wandering way leads?

She comprehended the perversity of life, that in the struggle lies the joy.”

From “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou

I Thought It Pulled Heavily!

The Dream. The Sea Of Cortez and all of Mexico around it . It exists even as you look at this image.

As noted in my previous blog, a week ago Jack and I were in a campsite on Sproat Lake just west of Port Alberni. It was a nice enough place although a bit too civilized for me. Yet I found myself in bliss because the trailer was proving itself as a close-to-perfect unit for my needs. This would be my mobile home for months on end so I could take exquisite photographs and make inspiring videos and write. It would be this old fartist’s (not a typo) studio and make for a healthy, affordable retirement. With that lifestyle in mind, I know my state of being and longevity will improve. I was fantasizing about sitting beside the trailer under a brilliant starry desert night sky, with a gently flickering mesquite campfire. Coyotes yipped and howled in the distance. My plan was to come home and repair the delamination in the front of the trailer. It would be an easy job for an old boat re-builder guy like me. The trailer would then be ready for adventures south. It is supposed to be a light-weight trailer. It thought it felt a bit heavier than it should, sort of like driving a loaded logging truck. I was essentially correct. The damned thing was water-logged throughout, top to bottom, front to back.

The joy of the trailer a few weeks ago. That reality was too short-lived.
Reality today.
“Whadya mean I’ve taken apart the wrong trailer. This belongs to who?”
NOT! Metal frame or not, you do not build a product like this and sell it to the public. “Good enough” is never good enough. The gap in the insulation and the poor joins are inexcusable as is the longitudinal piece which is an added chunk at the end only 8″ long.
Let there be no doubt as to who built this sorry mess. It is 12.5 years old and should not be  completely filled with moisture and rot. And…I don’t care who else builds crap like this, it is wrong. “Make America Great Again?” Start with some integrity!
Like can be simple. A motor bike and a pop-up tent. The best days of my life were when all I owned was a backpack.

Today I’ve just removed all my personal effects from the trailer which is now proven to be a hopeless rotted-out wreck. The more structure I opened up, the worse it got. I can see now that there were obvious signs of water damage but this arrogant Mr boat-fixer guy, with decades of marine experience, was too smart to get a seasoned RV person to come and have a look before I bought it. I’ve seen the same thing happen to knowledgeable mariners who decided they did not need a third party to survey the vessel they were buying in a fit of nautical lust. Now it is my turn to affirm that you cannot see objectively to pick out obvious signs when you are in a passionate state for a thing or a person. That is why so many marriages fail. Now I have nothing but a trailer frame and floor with working appliances. Worst of all, it was purchased with precious funds from the sale of my beloved ‘Seafire’.

Despite plenty of tough times in my life I have never lost something so important so quickly. A dream one minute, a disaster the next. Now I can understand the vacant look in the eyes of those who have endured a flood, or fire, invasion or earthquake or… well, there are plenty of ways your life can change instantly. Just a quick drive to the corner store can become a life-shattering experience, or perhaps a slip in the bath tub.

Part of the “South Library.” I’m keeping it handy.

This problem is not life and death, it just feels that way. Suddenly, in this moment, my dream is dashed and all looks hopeless. I know sailors who have put their boat and their whole life on a reef and considered themselves lucky to have survived the swim ashore in shark-infested waters to some distant foreign country, without water, money or passport. A while later, they had rebuilt their life and continued on, somewhat the better for their adventure. I am left wondering how to turn this into an adventure instead of an ordeal. There is a way. I will find it.

“The dream never dies, just the dreamer”
“Hope springs eternal.”
It’s up to you.

Self-produced videos online are testimonials to what a wonderful trailer a ‘Fun Finder’ is. I interviewed owners who could not offer enough praise and love for their Fun Finder. So I bought this trailer because several points of research told me the product was built with an aluminum frame and was a rugged, off- pavement capable trailer. Check out their website https://www.cruiserrv.com/travel-trailers/fun-finder.html There is, in fact, no aluminum in the structure anywhere. Perhaps my trailer, built in 2006, was before these people began using metal superstructures. I am not claiming the product was misrepresented and admit that clearly, my research did not go deep enough. I know that I did not buy a new product. That aside, the workmanship I have found points to a shabbily-built product which would have begun self-destructing as soon as it was pushed out of the factory into the weather. That is where I find an outrage. So let me suggest:

-DO NOT buy anything called a “Fun Finder” or “Shadow Cruiser” or “Cruiser RV”.

-If there is any evidence on a used RV of re-caulking anywhere, run like hell.

-A simple test for water damage (I’ve now learned) is to pull aside the insert strip in corner mouldings and remove a screw or two in the lower part of that seam. If the screw is rusty, or spins freely without backing out, the wood beneath is rotten, run like hell.

-If the vendor objects to an inspection, run like hell.

-If any interior covering such as wall paper is even slightly wrinkled, that’s water damage, run like hell.

– DO NOT but anything susceptible to the ravages of time and weather without the second opinion of somebody intimately familiar with that specific product.

I will be producing and posting a video of the damage. It will be on You Tube alongside all the accolades for the same product. It has been suggested that I park my wheeled hulk on the side of the highway with a sign saying “I’ll never buy a Fun Finder again.”

I did give  the trailer an interior sniff test, like all old boaters know how to do. It is actually a very good test for rot detection to the experienced nose. It seemed fine. I thumped and bumped all over and except for the “delamination” it appeared, to my unknowing eye, to be dandy. I’d researched that rippled front skin. Videos on YouTube show how to fix it easily. The vendor was a very nice fellow, who passed my street-smart tests for honesty and integrity. I truly believe that he was unaware of any problems behind the “delamination” which he pointed out absolutely up front. I thought I had bought myself a bargain and after a little work, I would be off to see the world. Since my dark discovery I have noticed several trailers and RVs with similar exterior signs of water ingress and clearly there are a lot of products out there in varying stages of self-destruction. Those signs are glaringly obvious now. They are out there as I write, hurtling down the roads of this long-weekend oblivious to the horror that awaits them. So, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

It’s Indian Plum time already!
Six months from now the trailer has to be rebuilt and in Loreto Baha for Christmas. A tall order, but I you don’t make plans, guess where you’ll end up.

After a few troubled night’s sleep, I’ve determined there is only one route which is forward. I’ve some debt to clear up, no money, no workplace and can easily fall into a state of utter hopelessness. (It’s that old manic depressive thing) I know it’s just a tiny trailer, but it represents the rest of my days. So I’ll sing the old lemonade song and get to work. Creative busyness is, for me, the best distraction. So I go.

So Caveat Emptor, there’s no fool like an old fool.

As smart as he looks. The old fool himself.

We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing. Action always generates inspiration. Inspiration seldom generates action.”…Frank Tibolt

The Way You See It

If you can’t see the humour in this, well…I hope you’re feeling better in the morning.

I have a natural inclination to apply humour to all my human interactions. It comes from a hard-wired insecurity which tells me that for successful interpersonal relations, I need to win folks over with a laugh and a smile. Most of the time that strategy works and I can get along well with folks, even those I don’t actually like. Once in a while I encounter some poor soul who is so broke they have no sense of humour. Then I’m stuck.

Sad beauty. This old miner’s house sits in an alley in downtown Ladysmith. It waits for a demolition crew. Through its inhabitants a house becomes a living thing. I hear children’s laughter, smell coal smoke and cooking aromas, see golden light in the windows on a wet winter night. Now it is no longer a sanctuary, but boarded up and slowly returning to the earth.

Recently I found myself in a large box store at a check-out counter. I was purchasing a new sewage-connection plumbing kit for my little trailer. The box it was in refused to stay closed. Plastic bits and long uncoiling brown springy hoses insisted on leaping out of their containment every time I managed to almost stuff them back into place. It was annoying but I could also see the funny perspective of my poo-pipe Jack-in the-box. I recall thinking, “Where’s the hidden camera?” A lady standing in line behind me asked, “Can I give you a hand”? Without thinking I responded with my usual come-back to that particular question. “Oh sure, I can always stand a little applause.” Invariably this brings a smile and laughter and I’ve made a new friend. Not today, even though others nearby saw the humour in my remark.

Dad? When can we have a another boat?

Look I was just trying to be helpful and you give me sarcasm. Goddamned men and their chauvinist attitudes! You don’t think women can do the same things men do!” Actually I do, I may even be more of a feminist that some women because I know many ladies who are more skilled than men doing anything that is considered within the manly realm. Pilots, doctors, welders, mechanics, machinery operators, ship’s captains, engineers, educators, politicians, on and on, gender is irrelevant to ability whether men can admit that or not. I refuse to categorize based on gender. That I even write about this is ridiculous. With that sensibility, I also have little patience with chauvinist remarks. I responded, “Look, I’m just trying to check out my shit pipes. I tried offering you a little humour in exchange for your kind offer. Now, please, get off my tits.” She shut up. I instantly regretted my last quip although I was implying that we are all equal, we are all mammals, now lay of the gender babble. She had intended to be helpful and I had worked at shattering her day simply because she has a different view of life.

When I rewind that scenario I realize that it would have been best to simply keep my pie-hole wide shut. I just can’t keep from responding to other folk’s remarks. Only I can allow their words to affect the course of my day in any way. Ultimately, the only person responsible for our feelings is ourselves. A woman once said to me in a very condescending tone, “You men are all the same!” Nope; I couldn’t resist. “Oh,” I replied, “Just how many men have you known?” Like the sign above says, “Do not make eye contact with the gorilla.”

Just another Dogpatch dawn.
The morning light is rich and sweet no matter what the sky.
Shadow chaser. An airliner at altitude flies into a perfectly aligned tunnel of its own contrail’s shadow.

Another equalizer is being overweight. “My doctor told me I was obese and I replied that after a recent trip through the US, I was not obese, thank you very much. I am certainly not spandex-tight wattle-revealing waddling sideways porky, but I’ll concede I am not the flat-bellied willowy self of decades past. With a few health problems spiralling around each other, packing around an extra forty pounds is detrimental to my well-being and longevity unless… I am a bear about to den up. Other folks I know have had great success with the trendy “Keto Diet” and so I have eliminated the consumption of carbohydrates and gluten including wheat, rice and pasta, beer, and most of the other foods which give me pleasure. I am left with meat fish and poultry, nuts, green vegetables which grow above the ground, cheese and a little dark chocolate. I am actually not missing the addiction to carbohydrates (Yeah right!) and things are starting to look down. There is also a certain pleasure in realizing that I have rejected the garbage diet most of my culture swallows without question. It is an easier regimen to assume than I thought and I am enjoying the results of a little self-deprivation. My jeans are beginning to hang from my suspenders like clown pants. Maybe, as I lose my big shape, I’ll actually be able to again use a belt successfully. For that you need hips. Don’t buy me any thongs just yet. Yuck! There is already a pair of Speedos I can’t bring myself to wear in public anymore.

A very short train. Ladysmith clings to a flickering dream of a railway museum.

Losing weight is not the only effort to trim the results of personal over-consumerism. I am trying to reduce the accumulations of belongings. If I never use it, or have even forgotten I possess it, it is junk. While I can’t bring myself to throwing out books or tools, I also am chagrined to realize that there is no point in storing boxes of things like plumbing fittings, bits of exotic wood, old useless boat parts and so forth. I’ve been dunging out and truly have ended up with loads of bits and bobs of no value to anyone. Potentially useful materials go to people like ReStore but otherwise, why keep stuff just for the bizarre comfort of owning “Stuff.” I’ve previously written about relatives who were hoarders to the point of reducing the value of their property because it was heaped with “Stuff.”

Lush. Calm. Birdsong.

I will confess to having rented a storage locker for the interim to store equipment and components left over from the sale of ‘Seafire.’ In the storage yard where my locker is, there is row after row of old cars, RVs and boats that are clearly worn out, rotting away and otherwise not used. Yet someone is paying to keep their belongings. Folks in our culture have so many belongings they can’t fit them into their over-sized homes. The storage business is a growth industry in North America. ($38 billion in the US alone.) As I was driving away and musing on our capitalist instinct, yet another news story on the radio ran on with more weary statistics about global warming. I often rant on about the “Profits of paranoia” so it was with some joy to sit at this desk and open a short YouTube presentation emailed on to me by a friend.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eiPIvH49X-E This link will take you to an excerpt from the 9th annual International Conference On Climate Change. It covers a short presentation by a renowned scientist named Art Robinson. Here are few things he has to say: “We are on a democratic playing field trying to save a constitutional republic.”…”All democracies fail and descend into mob rule.” In summation of what he presents the man says, whatever you choose to believe we ask you to “Think.” He presents a very different and qualified perspective on Global Climate Change and I found myself sitting at this desk applauding what he has the courage to say. I think some of his perspectives are skewed, we do need to think and act in a more responsible way toward our environment, but think, damn it, think.

Red Dogwood

I’ve recently forwarded two presentations of polemic, satirical political comment from YouTube to select friends. It was very interesting to consider the reactions each evoked. Some were in complete agreement with the views presented, others were enraged and very polarized against the ideas put forth. Interesting, in all negative responses I detected that only selected portions had been absorbed and the overall message had been missed. I have to always keep that in mind with what I write and leave no doubt in my comments and messages.

I have learned to keep my abstract social/ political views to myself past a certain point. There is no advantage for me to repel subscribers yet I also feel obliged to present thought-provoking suggestions that inspire folks to ask themselves questions which take them out of their personal comfort zones. Perhaps of all the things that separate the human organism from any other life form is our ability for introspection and self-questioning. To avoid doing so is to wilfully deny yourself your humanity. Goose-stepping out onto thin ice is foolish but sometimes, like it or not, you do have to look the gorilla in the eye.

The Sausage Hound. I couldn’t pass up this shot . One of the joys of Ladysmith is its old-time butcher shop on main street. It’s next to the pet store.

Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better.” …Albert Camus

Driveabout Part II

Driveabout Part II (Back to the sea)

First I have to apologize to those who are not receiving the full meal deal in regard to my recent blogs. Apparently, and coincidental with my new formating, there were some technical glitches of my making. If the images or text have been, or are still, troublesome please let me know.

AQUA! How’s this for clean lake water? This is entirely natural and very uplifting to see.

One of the wonderful things about living in British Columbia is that you can can travel a short distance and be in a very different type of scenery. Two days ago I drove from the south Okanogan to Princeton then turned north for some lovely lakes not far from a town called Merritt. The fecund orchards and vineyards soon give way to lush ranch land and steep rolling grassy hills interspersed with forests of mixed pine and fir. A twisting road climbs and descends past rocky cliffs and winding, rushing rivers. An ever-changing vista offers a visual feast and makes staying safely on the road a challenge.

An Osprey nest. This is a man-made nesting site which does not make the birds any less beautiful. Note the plastic baling twine incorporated by the birds in their nest-building. The environmental impact of plastic is far-reaching.

Jack is fascinated with each new topography and its new smells. He is always eager to explore and stake out any new territory. When we finally arrived at the Kentucky- Alleyne Provincial Park he spent a happy afternoon snuffling into the endless burrows of gophers and ground squirrels. They would stand erect watching him from a safe distance and he never caught on that he was beaten from the beginning. But he had fun, and he slept well.

Folks who live in glass yurts shouldn’t throw anything. I found this solarium on a back street in Hedley. It is made from re-claimed windshields. I am not sure I’d sleep well inside that glass fabrication.
A landmark at Spence’s Bridge on the Thompson river. I do not know its history but it is clearly abandoned now.
Quasimoto, where are you?
The church unveiled

This country borders on the famous Douglas Lake Ranch, an area of beautiful open forest and grassland. It is wild, open country which I love. I’ve found the same landscape in Eastern Oregon. When in this kind of place I ache to once again know the squeak and rhythm of the saddle and the feel of a stout working horse beneath, a splendid way to see and know the world. I know that for me to get back on a saddle after many decades, I’d soon be aching in other places. Horsemanship is an entirely different way of life with its own sensibilities, smells, paces, knowledge and people quite apart from what most of us know. The relationship between a horse and its human is a special bond you must experience to understand. Add a good dog to the mix and it is bliss indeed. Horse people generally have a level, peaceful way of dealing with life. If they were otherwise they could not interact successfully with horses which are very spiritual creatures. It is hard to know what comes first, the horse or the attitude. That does not mean these folks always get on well with other people.

Murray Creek Falls at Spences Bridge
The high country. On the edge of range land of the Douglas Lake Ranch this is Alleyne Lake. It is stocked with trout and attracts fishermen year-round.
Prince Jack surveys his latest new kingdom. He was in bliss.
Morning at West Pond. Bull Pine, aka Ponderosa Pine, aka Yellow Pine look down on Jack’s big lawn where he was fascinated with the burrows of gophers and ground squirrels.
Kentucky Lake. Pristine!
Old barn, Nicola Valley
The old ranch house. It stands unnoticed on the side of the road. Imagine the lives that were centered here. Notice the encroaching open pit mine in the background.
The rail fence around the house and barn. Part of the old way of doing things, when labour was cheaper than barbed wire. Each time I see these relics of days past, I realize they will soon all be gone.

Fully intending to spend a day or two in this splendid place I awoke and put the coffee on only to discover that I was out of propane. Swear words! Jack and I went for a walk. I prepared the trailer for the road and headed for town. All fuelled up, I drove a little further, and then some more. It would become that sort of day. At the head of the Nicola Valley I turned back on my old track to Lytton, then on up the Fraser Valley to Lillooet. On the way I met an oncoming vehicle with flashing headlights. A little further and I came on a small rock slide on a curve above a cliff. Skirting the rocks on the road came eight mountain sheep ewes. We passed within inches of each other and no, I did not get one photo. Jack was impressed. Lillooet had no appealing campgrounds and we took to the high pass which leads to Pemberton and the Coastal Mountains. It is a tortuous drive, climbing and descending steeply, all the while filled with sharp curves and frost-heaved pavement. Huge residual blocks of winter’s old ice clogged the ditches and Duffey Lake at the top was still half-frozen.

Pemberton had no camp grounds to offer and we trundled on despairingly toward Whistler. I had thought that Lillooet would be a fine place to spend a couple of days but now here we were many hours past and over a long mountain pass. Whistler is a beautiful place with stunning mountains and plenty of snow but it has been exploited and developed to a sorry state. I have no sense of the Alpine village the former tiny, remote community once was.

Whistler Valley evening view.
Next morning
Yeah right…next morning. Brrrr!
Not just passing through. The slap-dash winter skirting gives it away. Whistler is an instant town, booming so fast that housing is a challenge for newcomers.
Supply and demand pushes costs to the limit.

Everything there now is about glitz and dollars, with garish yet boring architecture. If someone could extort you for your next breath, they certainly would. Any business with the word ‘Whistler’ in its name will be charging exorbitant rates like the Whistler RV Park. $52 for one night and $10 extra for their internet password to a service which worked very poorly. The sewage connector pipe rose 18” above the ground. And Whistler or not, sewage does NOT run uphill.

When I mentioned that their prices were the highest I’d ever paid I was told they were on par for the area and I would really love the view. As if they had provided the scenery! The view is bisected with a busy highway, a railway, and a power line. I hate power lines. They are soul-destroying visual blights. You are never out of sight of one in this area. They transmit energy from the dams back up in the hills to Vancouver. I understand that electricity is necessary to run all those ski lifts and light all those bars, condos and hotels but there is a lot lacking in the rustic charm department. Concrete and poo-brown paint might work for urban condomites but not for this old bush-ape.

In the morning, at no extra charge, we stepped out of our trailer to a very heavy frost. We drove southward, looking for a place for our morning walk. We turned in for a trail head near Garibaldi Mountain only to discover two kilometres further along, large signs clearly forbidding dogs. Grrrrr! We turned the trailer around and headed back out onto the concrete snot chute.

That’s more like it. I immediately felt at home. Some creative wit travelled for miles in Paradise Valley and brilliantly altered the road signs.
Says it all!
Crystal clear streams, even in spring, run through dense coastal rainforest.
Spring in Paradise Valley
“Hi mom, we’re home!”
Devil’s Club, very aptly named. This nasty plant can grow ten feet tall and is completely covered in toxic spines. Every skin puncture will become an itchy, infected welt. They grow in thickets, which if you stumble in, well….!

A few miles further south we discovered a lovely place called Paradise Valley just north of Squamish. It is bliss. A lovely bunch of folks operate a beautiful RV park and campground which includes a network of beautiful trails winding along the Cheakamus River and a series of streams and ponds connected to a salmon hatchery. Everything has worked out for the best. It seemed especially sweet after the crassness of Whistler. https://paradisevalleycampground.net/ It really is worth a visit. I am not a fan of commercial RV parks and campgrounds but these folks have really achieved something quite special.

Fiddleheads. They have just matured past the state of being tenderly tasty crunchy.
On verdant pond. I could not savour this place enough.

Squamish, which is losing its former “rustic/industrial charm” to the blight of concrete, chrome and glass heralds a return to the frantic rush of city folks and their desperate need to be in a constant rush to go and be among more herds of people. The ‘Sea To Sky Highway’ was rebuilt at fantastic cost in the hope of safety by widening and straightening the route to Whistler. It only allows for higher speeds regardless of posted limits. Some people have clearly lost a base instinct called fear. I swear James Bond passed me; several times. Zoomheads! I arrived at the Horseshoe Bay ferry terminal with mixed feelings. It was grand to out of the Whistler gauntlet but the wait for the next ferry is always a diminishing experience. I’m sure that part of the exorbitant fare is for storage! As one salmon said to the other when the ferry passed, “Look at all the canned people.” There was a time when I used to enjoy a ferry experience. The thrill is gone. At least I’m back on the ocean. My gasping gills are happy.

In the line-up at the ferry terminal i pulled up behind this work of art. Entirely home-made, this trailer  was built by a sport fisherman needing a home away from home.
It is beautiful to the last detail.

This little jaunt over and through hill and dale was a shakedown for the miles ahead. Now, rustling up income for a big trip south is a task among all the upgrades and modifications required. My new/old truck began consuming copious amounts of engine oil, with no unusual smoke or any leaks… yet another mystery to resolve. It is probably just a gigametric fufu valve within the new order of engine technology which this old wrench bender doesn’t understand. When you are done learning, your life is over. Now then, can anyone recommend a good road map of Baha?

While cleaning the trailer i found this, a Jersey Penny. Now this is a mystery indeed.
I’m back home to the coast for the first Camas blooms.
Bluebells and Oregon Grape
Back in the old harbour again.

Life is a highway…

The Khyber Pass to Vancouver’s lights…

I wanna ride it all night long.” Tom Cochrane