We are home now and settling into the day to day routine/grind of work life once again. But before we drove the last stretch of highway to Vancouver Island we stopped at Adams River near Shuswap Lake in BC's interior. This river is home to one of North America's largest sockeye salmon runs, and this year, 2010, is a big one with an estimated 2 million fish returning.
The actual run is three weeks - from October 4th to 24th, so our visit was a tad early. Still we saw some early returns collecting in sunny pools, chasing each other over gravel beds, and laying eggs among the small pebbles of the river bottom.
From time to time we all return home. Infrequent or regular it is usually a journey that draws us to an internal realm and reminds us of roots: of trails walked or forgotten, of personalities that fit like a good coat, or feel like a worn out skin. Home is a complex connection, and for most of us navigation to the front door is not too difficult a task. Now, think yourself fish....
...and imagine being hard-wired to steer your soft body from the depths of an ocean to the mouth of a muddy river. Next, you push against stiff currents for 500 miles, veer from one river to the next, until you reach the banks of creek where you were born. The water is dark. There are no 'landmarks' to show the way. No headlights. No one waiting with a candle in the window.
The sokeye salmon 'smell' their way home. Each river scented, stored in fish memory. Survival, re-production, the manifestation of natural cycles in the body of a small red fish, stone bruised, fin-tattered, partly grey as its scales decay: this drive is ancient. Once home the female turns on her side and flaps her tail to sweep out a circle of gravel to lay some 3,500 eggs. The male fertilizes with a whitish milt. Exhausted, both fish die...and life begins again.
The poet Don MacKay says home 'is a place where, that at least until our century, the world could be founded and made sense of, the heart of the real.' He discusses this 'heart' as a point at which exists a critical axis... a vertical line with a path leading upwards to the sky, and downwards to the underworld...and a horizontal line which represents 'the traffic of the world, all the possible roads leading across the earth to other places'....
Home. Center of the axis. Middle point between sky gods and underworld gods....traffic...and roads leading us to other places. Within 3 months the salmon hatch and are on their way to becoming 'fry'and then 'smolt' that will make their way out to sea, leaving home for larger life, returning in four years to breed and die.
And what of all of us? We go about modern-ness with break neck speed. We go and do, and go....
Here is a link to John's photos for the day......
Monday, September 27, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
On touching higher places, and stepping where we cannot stay….
We’ve braved the weather at Waterton Lakes for four days; rain pelting gortex as we stir fry dinner on the Coleman stove, tarps snapping and flapping in the never-ending wind. Day five. We wake to a shard of sunlight climbing the side of the tent. Could it be? Will we hike today without toque and mitts?
We set off for the Alderson-Carthew Summit – a 15 km round trip hike from Cameron Lake: a turquoise pool circled by walls of rock. The trail rises slowly through alpine terrain – huckleberries, blueberries and fireweed turn rosy in the sharp air. Stunted spruce and tamarack, wind shaped, create a bent and roughened forest. We begin in partial sun, but a few hundred feet up the trail the clouds lock closed – and a hard driving slurry of sleet/snow begins.
Sigh.
We put our heads down and keep walking. Abruptly, landscape turns stone-scape, alpine meadows replaced with the red shale of a steep rock trail that switchbacks up the mountain to a summit covered in blowing cloud one minute and patches of blue sky the next. Since we now see the top there is no option but to reach it. By now the air is thinner and we breathe harder, our steps more laborious. I stop and look up the last 200 feet to the summit, put my head back down, hoist up my pack and trudge to the top. John has arrived ahead of me (of course) and is already shooting pictures, framing up his shots between banks of low cloud that blow into us and then pass down the other side of the mountain.
We are standing on the spine of a mountain ridge that curves down to a far valley. The ridge passes through two small lakes we see in the distance, then travels into trees. Farther still we see the prairie grass lands, mottled with alternating patches of sun and rain.
Our journeys this summer have been devoid of any real story. The drama and gossip of everyday life has fallen silent – not that either of our personal lives contain much of this, still the inevitable connections of modern-ness mean we know more about the world and its people than we used to, or probably need to. This ridge top is a river of wind, a home for absence, a place linking sound and silence, each promising to not out-do the other. I want to stay a while. Throw away a galaxy of thought, the continual turning of the mind. Feel a space whose existence depends on my not being there. Look closely at the saxifrage clutching rocks and ledges, the tough grass blasted by weather.
This is the world.
And soon, because sound and silence have struck a natural bargain, we must leave. Cold, tired, we slope homeward, silence stepping sideways, the wind naming us inconsequential creatures who do not, cannot belong.
In her poem A Name, Many Names Anne Simpson says…
Later you’ll need a name
that’s door and window, roof
and bed. You’ll need a name to foil
the thief that comes
to live in your heart. But now
you’ll need a name so diaphanous
and small
it takes its shape from air.
Here is the link to John’s photos for the day…http://picasaweb.google.ca/lh/
Friday, September 10, 2010
Head Smashed In
...it's a buffalo jump. Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump. And as the story goes these cliffs were named in the 1800s when a First Nations boy placed himself under the cliff to watch the buffalo jump over its edge. As the bodies of the animals piled up he was crushed against the wall of the cliff. When his people later found him they named the cliff as Head Smashed In to mark his death.
Dodging the rain and cold, we made a day-trip to this historic site from Waterton. The jump is a UNESCO Heritage Site and sits on the prairie about 30 minutes outside of Fort McLeod. The interpretive center is well laid out, deeply informative and managed by First Nations people who live in the area. There are three floors all with elaborate displays of site artifacts and excellent writings on how the site was used. This particular site is nearly 6,000 years old. Archeological digs have unearthed large piles of bones and tools all around the kill site.
There are two jumps here. The Plains People would wait until the fall of the year when the buffalo are at their highest weight, then build long runs from the prairie to the edge of the jump. These run-ways were marked with stone cairns and tall branches and acted as corrals for the buffalo to run down and eventually leap to their deaths over the cliff. A young man took John and I out to the jump site and told us of his family and a bit of his history. I had been puzzled why the people would kill an entire herd of a few hundred animals this way, thinking that this would jepoeardize their food supply.
He smiled at me gently and said, "Well, there were over 60 million buffalo on these plains at that time, so taking one herd was not a problem."
60 million. For a moment I was overcome with emotion and had no idea what to say to him. We looked out across the prairie, at the fescue and the yellow grass, the sage and saskatoon. Beautiful and bare. The charcoal clouds rolling in. What this must have looked like only a couple of hundred years ago. We humans can certainly make short work of nature's grand and ancient systems. Bruce Cockburn says, "we create what destroys"....and looking over these grasslands I have to think he's right.
And a link to a few of John's photos for the day....
http://picasaweb.google.ca/lh/sredir?uname=johnsampsonphoto&target=ALBUM&id=5515692189966208017&authkey=Gv1sRgCPmw8sWL5MbN7wE&feat=email
S
Dodging the rain and cold, we made a day-trip to this historic site from Waterton. The jump is a UNESCO Heritage Site and sits on the prairie about 30 minutes outside of Fort McLeod. The interpretive center is well laid out, deeply informative and managed by First Nations people who live in the area. There are three floors all with elaborate displays of site artifacts and excellent writings on how the site was used. This particular site is nearly 6,000 years old. Archeological digs have unearthed large piles of bones and tools all around the kill site.
There are two jumps here. The Plains People would wait until the fall of the year when the buffalo are at their highest weight, then build long runs from the prairie to the edge of the jump. These run-ways were marked with stone cairns and tall branches and acted as corrals for the buffalo to run down and eventually leap to their deaths over the cliff. A young man took John and I out to the jump site and told us of his family and a bit of his history. I had been puzzled why the people would kill an entire herd of a few hundred animals this way, thinking that this would jepoeardize their food supply.
He smiled at me gently and said, "Well, there were over 60 million buffalo on these plains at that time, so taking one herd was not a problem."
60 million. For a moment I was overcome with emotion and had no idea what to say to him. We looked out across the prairie, at the fescue and the yellow grass, the sage and saskatoon. Beautiful and bare. The charcoal clouds rolling in. What this must have looked like only a couple of hundred years ago. We humans can certainly make short work of nature's grand and ancient systems. Bruce Cockburn says, "we create what destroys"....and looking over these grasslands I have to think he's right.
And a link to a few of John's photos for the day....
http://picasaweb.google.ca/lh/sredir?uname=johnsampsonphoto&target=ALBUM&id=5515692189966208017&authkey=Gv1sRgCPmw8sWL5MbN7wE&feat=email
S
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Red Rock Canyon
This morning a small piece of sun makes its way to our campground. The clouds are heavy but there is no rain yet and we pack up a lunch and head off to Red Rock Canyon. The hike is short, and while others take the paved path around the canyon John and I climb down the bank and into the creek. We skirt the sides of the creek to get a good look at the rocks - which as would be expected - are very red. The water is clear and runs over rocks that are at turns burgandy, wine coloured, terra-cotta or orange depending on if they are wet or dry. As well , a cream coloured stone runs through all this, creating a swirled or striped effect in the rock. Underwater the red and white stones take on the shapes of salmon, sitting in the hollows of the river.
The canyon is a beautiful gash in the prairie: hard and curved, ragged pines hang off its edges, moss and small ferns grow down the steep slopes.
This is mudstone - originally the bottom of an inland sea, and then packed down over millions of years. It is in on it way to becoming shale in some parts of the canyon - but isn't there yet as the walls release small red flakes of rock. Some of the stone holds the shapes of a shallow sea...ridged impressions of the sand under the water. There are also what I call flower stones - green with white sunbursts patterned across them - the fossilized bodies of ancient creatures.
We walk up the canyon as far as possible without wading in too deep and reflect for a moment on what this place was like before contact: an orange/red canyon cut through the grasslands of a lush prairie, a piece of light and likely rest for those who lived here.
Now it is a National Park with a concrete parking lot under construction to hold the tour buses that migrate here each summer.
Of the river...the poet Tim Lilburn has this to say....
In itself and elsewhere, the river a feathered thing.
I'll go down there.
I'll take the gold body
That is quarter-full in my body, thinness rushing
to its edge, a building voice,
and put it in the grass.
Of course John is shooting pictures so check out his handy work - very nice.
http://picasaweb.google.ca/lh/sredir?uname=johnsampsonphoto&target=ALBUM&id=5514629545573643233&authkey=Gv1sRgCKjO37Wtlu6HZQ&feat=email
Talk to you all soon - S:)
The canyon is a beautiful gash in the prairie: hard and curved, ragged pines hang off its edges, moss and small ferns grow down the steep slopes.
This is mudstone - originally the bottom of an inland sea, and then packed down over millions of years. It is in on it way to becoming shale in some parts of the canyon - but isn't there yet as the walls release small red flakes of rock. Some of the stone holds the shapes of a shallow sea...ridged impressions of the sand under the water. There are also what I call flower stones - green with white sunbursts patterned across them - the fossilized bodies of ancient creatures.
We walk up the canyon as far as possible without wading in too deep and reflect for a moment on what this place was like before contact: an orange/red canyon cut through the grasslands of a lush prairie, a piece of light and likely rest for those who lived here.
Now it is a National Park with a concrete parking lot under construction to hold the tour buses that migrate here each summer.
Of the river...the poet Tim Lilburn has this to say....
In itself and elsewhere, the river a feathered thing.
I'll go down there.
I'll take the gold body
That is quarter-full in my body, thinness rushing
to its edge, a building voice,
and put it in the grass.
Of course John is shooting pictures so check out his handy work - very nice.
http://picasaweb.google.ca/lh/sredir?uname=johnsampsonphoto&target=ALBUM&id=5514629545573643233&authkey=Gv1sRgCKjO37Wtlu6HZQ&feat=email
Talk to you all soon - S:)
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tent lore from Waterton Park
We landed in Waterton Park a couple of nights ago, road weary and ready for a week in one place - which means the tent and tarps stay up in one place along with all the other camp paraphenalia (rubber maid containers, wash tubs, wet towels, bikes, blah blah blah)....yes camping, while wonderful, is a bit of work.
Waterton Lakes is a National Peace Park - I haven't figured out what the 'Peace' bit is all about yet, but the National Park designation is pretty clear. This place is stunning - even in low cloud and dropping temperatures. Waterton is the Canadian half of a Glacier Park - which resides in the States. It sits along the Alberta/US border and is a merge of rolling prairie grassland, clear lakes and glacier peaks that seem to come out of nowhere. The town of Waterton is like a mini Banff, but hiberates to a mere 30 souls in winter.
When we arrived darkness was setting in and it was cold and getting colder by the minute. We donned toques and winter gloves, flicked on flashlights and put up the tent. We're pretty good at this, and can be hunkered down in bed in about 20 minutes from start to finish...still, there are some humourous moments for sure. As my good friends know I like to be in charge...in control shall we say....and John has particular mental 'systems' for outdoor endeavours (setting up tents, packing cars, tieing ropes, etc...) Long story short, if we both play captain to set up of the tent in the dark we'll be at it all night. Two leads in a complex dance is never a good idea. Thankfully I've clued into this pattern (better late than never) and say "Okay, sweetheart, tell me what to do.".....Good choice - tent up in no time and we're both still alive. To maximize sleep comfort this trip we brought along a large air matress....so we blow that up....stuff it in the tent (the fit is so tight it reminds of the scene where the Grinch stuffs the presents up the chimmney) ...unroll the sleeping bags ....and climb in. Now things get really interesting. This is not like crawling into bed, turning over and drifting off to sleep. In these cold climes I sleep in elaborate layers of fleece, socks and toque. So...without standing up...twist and turn out of day clothes into 'night-clothes'.....huff, puff, okay...we're there...lie down...put on the head lamp...and crack a book...all settled. Then in comes John and the whole process starts all over again....the air mattress tilting and rocking with rolling waves of air...book and lamp go up and down as he wrestles into his sleeping bag....comparing himself to a drunken beached walrus sporting a headlamp and lurching up the shore to lie beside his mate. Yup, it's quite a scene.
So why do we do this? Well, it's cheap. We're warm. Dry. But really - despite all the ins and outs - we sleep out here like no where else. Day by day our heads empty and layers of whatever modern garbage turns circles in our small brains diminshes, becomes a softer voice, and then falls silent. The air is so sharp, so clear it becomes a topic of conversation, and if either of us steps outside in the middle of the night the star show is astounding. You can't see these night lights in the city. In the morning we might wake up with a few more aches and rumples, and usually the air matress has lost all its umpf...but we feel closer to ourselves, quieter, and nearer to an understanding of what it takes to live well: not much really.
Shelter. Warmth. Love. And a good breakfast in the morning.
Sign me up.
S
Waterton Lakes is a National Peace Park - I haven't figured out what the 'Peace' bit is all about yet, but the National Park designation is pretty clear. This place is stunning - even in low cloud and dropping temperatures. Waterton is the Canadian half of a Glacier Park - which resides in the States. It sits along the Alberta/US border and is a merge of rolling prairie grassland, clear lakes and glacier peaks that seem to come out of nowhere. The town of Waterton is like a mini Banff, but hiberates to a mere 30 souls in winter.
When we arrived darkness was setting in and it was cold and getting colder by the minute. We donned toques and winter gloves, flicked on flashlights and put up the tent. We're pretty good at this, and can be hunkered down in bed in about 20 minutes from start to finish...still, there are some humourous moments for sure. As my good friends know I like to be in charge...in control shall we say....and John has particular mental 'systems' for outdoor endeavours (setting up tents, packing cars, tieing ropes, etc...) Long story short, if we both play captain to set up of the tent in the dark we'll be at it all night. Two leads in a complex dance is never a good idea. Thankfully I've clued into this pattern (better late than never) and say "Okay, sweetheart, tell me what to do.".....Good choice - tent up in no time and we're both still alive. To maximize sleep comfort this trip we brought along a large air matress....so we blow that up....stuff it in the tent (the fit is so tight it reminds of the scene where the Grinch stuffs the presents up the chimmney) ...unroll the sleeping bags ....and climb in. Now things get really interesting. This is not like crawling into bed, turning over and drifting off to sleep. In these cold climes I sleep in elaborate layers of fleece, socks and toque. So...without standing up...twist and turn out of day clothes into 'night-clothes'.....huff, puff, okay...we're there...lie down...put on the head lamp...and crack a book...all settled. Then in comes John and the whole process starts all over again....the air mattress tilting and rocking with rolling waves of air...book and lamp go up and down as he wrestles into his sleeping bag....comparing himself to a drunken beached walrus sporting a headlamp and lurching up the shore to lie beside his mate. Yup, it's quite a scene.
So why do we do this? Well, it's cheap. We're warm. Dry. But really - despite all the ins and outs - we sleep out here like no where else. Day by day our heads empty and layers of whatever modern garbage turns circles in our small brains diminshes, becomes a softer voice, and then falls silent. The air is so sharp, so clear it becomes a topic of conversation, and if either of us steps outside in the middle of the night the star show is astounding. You can't see these night lights in the city. In the morning we might wake up with a few more aches and rumples, and usually the air matress has lost all its umpf...but we feel closer to ourselves, quieter, and nearer to an understanding of what it takes to live well: not much really.
Shelter. Warmth. Love. And a good breakfast in the morning.
Sign me up.
S
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Old railways, lost feathers and forgotten towns....
The weather is cooling, the clouds taking on darker shades and it's clear September has arrived. We're at Christina Lake, sitting by the fire after a day of bumping over dust and rocks on the Trans Canada Trail. This section was once part of th Columbia Western Railway and today we ride a 32 km stretch from Christina Lake to (nearly) Grand Forks. The trail winds through pine forests and dry grasses that have yellowed through August. It has not rained here for some time and when we sit under the pine trees to rest a while the forest floor is a mass of red needles and sun bleached twigs. Today thought, the sky gathers clouds and cooler winds. Rain is coming.
The cycling trestles on this trail are new and stretch over teh Kettle River in two places. When you go over the first trestle the river is sleepy as the cows that lumber around its edges. But five minutes up the trail the water boils through a gorge it has carved and polished to circular pockets of striped stone. We leeeaaan over the edge to get a good look at the green pools then settle back to dig into lunch.
The cycle trail was originally the Columbia Western Railway. A freight rail cut through the Kootenay wilderness beginning in 1898. The purpose: to move various mineral loads (ore, copper, silver, zinc, lead and a little gold) across a maze of rail lines that woudl eventually wind their way to the ports of Vancouver. And, the hope was to do this before the American competition did it first! Like all other Canadian rail histories this one has left behind its requisite bridges/trestles (5), tunnels (6 - one nearly 1 km long), and snow sheds (3). There are also a series of sturdy retaining walls built by Italian stone masons. The walls continue to stand strong, the craftmanship evident. But what John and I find most amazing are the stories of the cities that sprang up and then whithered and disappeared in the space of a few short months. Take the story of Brooklyn. It came to life in 1898 on the shores of Lower Arrow Lake and became the construction headquarters of the Columbia Western Railway. This all began in June of that yeat and by September the tow boasted 16 hotels, a hospital and several dry goods stores selling everything from liquor to boots. Before the end of the the year the town was closiong down, its residents called to better fortunes down the line. By the following summer Brooklyn was little more than a ghost town. Niagara was another example - from boom to bust in a year. By mid-year it had 12 hotels, 9 general stores, 3 butcher shops, 2 blacksmiths and several other businesses. By the end of the year - poof - gone!
Today all that's left of the rails and their towns are a few splintered ties and the slight impressions in a field or two of where a building might have stood. Along the trail I find three feathers - downy charcoal at the base, rising to an iridescent plume across a wide tip. All along the side several lighter stripes. I'm not sure what bird lost these beautiies but like the stories of the ghost towns they seem exotic to the land yet not completely out of place; as if someone had stood in these grassy fields, sung for hours to no one, then walked away.
Of all the lovely pieces of ourselves and others that release and settle into the world....the American poet, Mary Oliver has this to say in her book "Winter Hours".....
"I don't think I am old yet or done with growing. But my perspective has altered - I am less hungry for the busyness of the body, more interested in the tricks of the mind. I am gaining also, a new affection, for the wood that is useless, that has been tossed out, that merely exists, quietly, whereever it has ended up.....in the woods, fallen branches of oak, maple, of the dear, wind-worn pines. They lie on the ground and do nothing. They are travelers on the way to oblivion."
Here is a link to John's photos for the day....
http://picasaweb.google.ca/johnsampsonphoto/September2010ColumbiaWesternRRCycleTrail?authkey=Gv1sRgCO73_t2suv2mngE#
The cycling trestles on this trail are new and stretch over teh Kettle River in two places. When you go over the first trestle the river is sleepy as the cows that lumber around its edges. But five minutes up the trail the water boils through a gorge it has carved and polished to circular pockets of striped stone. We leeeaaan over the edge to get a good look at the green pools then settle back to dig into lunch.
The cycle trail was originally the Columbia Western Railway. A freight rail cut through the Kootenay wilderness beginning in 1898. The purpose: to move various mineral loads (ore, copper, silver, zinc, lead and a little gold) across a maze of rail lines that woudl eventually wind their way to the ports of Vancouver. And, the hope was to do this before the American competition did it first! Like all other Canadian rail histories this one has left behind its requisite bridges/trestles (5), tunnels (6 - one nearly 1 km long), and snow sheds (3). There are also a series of sturdy retaining walls built by Italian stone masons. The walls continue to stand strong, the craftmanship evident. But what John and I find most amazing are the stories of the cities that sprang up and then whithered and disappeared in the space of a few short months. Take the story of Brooklyn. It came to life in 1898 on the shores of Lower Arrow Lake and became the construction headquarters of the Columbia Western Railway. This all began in June of that yeat and by September the tow boasted 16 hotels, a hospital and several dry goods stores selling everything from liquor to boots. Before the end of the the year the town was closiong down, its residents called to better fortunes down the line. By the following summer Brooklyn was little more than a ghost town. Niagara was another example - from boom to bust in a year. By mid-year it had 12 hotels, 9 general stores, 3 butcher shops, 2 blacksmiths and several other businesses. By the end of the year - poof - gone!
Today all that's left of the rails and their towns are a few splintered ties and the slight impressions in a field or two of where a building might have stood. Along the trail I find three feathers - downy charcoal at the base, rising to an iridescent plume across a wide tip. All along the side several lighter stripes. I'm not sure what bird lost these beautiies but like the stories of the ghost towns they seem exotic to the land yet not completely out of place; as if someone had stood in these grassy fields, sung for hours to no one, then walked away.
Of all the lovely pieces of ourselves and others that release and settle into the world....the American poet, Mary Oliver has this to say in her book "Winter Hours".....
"I don't think I am old yet or done with growing. But my perspective has altered - I am less hungry for the busyness of the body, more interested in the tricks of the mind. I am gaining also, a new affection, for the wood that is useless, that has been tossed out, that merely exists, quietly, whereever it has ended up.....in the woods, fallen branches of oak, maple, of the dear, wind-worn pines. They lie on the ground and do nothing. They are travelers on the way to oblivion."
Here is a link to John's photos for the day....
http://picasaweb.google.ca/johnsampsonphoto/September2010ColumbiaWesternRRCycleTrail?authkey=Gv1sRgCO73_t2suv2mngE#
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Hiking Mount Frosty
I wake up this morning with my toque over my eyes, my nose numb with cold. We're in Manning Park, camping at 4000 feet. But, the day is clear, not a cloud in sight and John is up and gone to the lake. I hear him coming up the gravel path and wrestle from the sleeping bag. He has been shooting photos and says the lake is special this morning. As in so many other parts of our life together, he shows me the path and leads me down to the light. In full sun, plumes of steam ride across the water. Water skeeters row in and out of the skinny reeds, the sun casting shadows on the stones beneath their small bodies. The light moves with purpose. There is no sound.
Today we will climb Mount Frosty, an 18 km, 3,000 foot hike from our campsite. We start the hike in true Sue and John style – circling round the campsite and back again – Have we got everything? Enough food? Water? Who has the first aid kit? What time is it? 11:00? Good God.
Yes, it’s painful. But eventually, off we go.
The trail is a gradual climb through a ragged spruce forest, and then out across an alpine meadow. The flowers are spent, all their color blasted out through August. We pick handfuls of wild blueberries, laugh about bears and keep walking. Four hours later we’re at the base of Mt. Frosty, pooped and looking up a scree slope with 20 minutes more ahead of us to the summit. All around - far blue peaks of mountains I cannot name. The clouds wisp into long circles over our heads. A wind rises and we realize the day is closing down and we’re still hours from our campsite. We pass on the summit and start the slog home.
We’ve been out all day and have seen no one. Just the downy woodpeckers that skitter up spruce bark, or the whisky jacks flitting down the trail beside us looking for food and attention. We have spent long periods of the day in happy silence: John has been shooting photos, and I am still thinking about the lake alive with light and the world of water skeeters; each of us storing small pictures, single moments of peace, that have arrived like a gentle season…
…from Don Domanski’s poem Childhood
every insect is a harbinger
of what has just begun
the universe is kept in small things
for safekeeping
keeping safe the stillness
every silence is a lingering of absolutes
it’s all the same god
Check out John's photos of Manning here:
http://picasaweb.google.ca/lh/
….Next post from Christina Lake, and the Columbia Western Railway bike trail.
All the best everyone – Sue
Today we will climb Mount Frosty, an 18 km, 3,000 foot hike from our campsite. We start the hike in true Sue and John style – circling round the campsite and back again – Have we got everything? Enough food? Water? Who has the first aid kit? What time is it? 11:00? Good God.
Yes, it’s painful. But eventually, off we go.
The trail is a gradual climb through a ragged spruce forest, and then out across an alpine meadow. The flowers are spent, all their color blasted out through August. We pick handfuls of wild blueberries, laugh about bears and keep walking. Four hours later we’re at the base of Mt. Frosty, pooped and looking up a scree slope with 20 minutes more ahead of us to the summit. All around - far blue peaks of mountains I cannot name. The clouds wisp into long circles over our heads. A wind rises and we realize the day is closing down and we’re still hours from our campsite. We pass on the summit and start the slog home.
We’ve been out all day and have seen no one. Just the downy woodpeckers that skitter up spruce bark, or the whisky jacks flitting down the trail beside us looking for food and attention. We have spent long periods of the day in happy silence: John has been shooting photos, and I am still thinking about the lake alive with light and the world of water skeeters; each of us storing small pictures, single moments of peace, that have arrived like a gentle season…
…from Don Domanski’s poem Childhood
every insect is a harbinger
of what has just begun
the universe is kept in small things
for safekeeping
keeping safe the stillness
every silence is a lingering of absolutes
it’s all the same god
Check out John's photos of Manning here:
http://picasaweb.google.ca/lh/
….Next post from Christina Lake, and the Columbia Western Railway bike trail.
All the best everyone – Sue
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