Tag Archives: Nature

Haida Gwaii

Haida Gwaii is an archipelago of 150 islands north of Vancouver Island in British Columbia, and an eight-hour ferry ride west of the BC mainland.  It means “islands of the people”, the aboriginal Haida people.  It used to be called the Queen Charlotte Islands.  Thank goodness Canada now recognizes its native residents by name.

I’m going there – in June, 2016.  I’ll be spending eight days on a sailing ship with seven other guests and a crew of four or five.  Wow.  I’m really doing this.  Jody and I wanted to explore the BC coast together, but alas, that was not to be.  Except that Jodiette says she’ll be at my side every wave of the way.  Thank you, my wife.

I’m likely to see humpback whales, bald eagles, dolphins, sea lions, very large black bears, and maybe killer whales.  I will listen to Haida elders talk of their totem poles and their spiritual life.  I will enjoy the company of my new friends onboard.  And I will meditate on God’s vast reach on our planet.

On a trip to Haida Gwaii a few weeks ago, here are some notes from the captain:

This morning we visited K’uuna (Skedans), and as we approached we had another humpback whale on the starboard side.  We counted 100 bald eagles at Skedans Islands.

I can anticipate, plan, expect and predict … but my journey will unfold as it should.  What if I never see a humpback?  Then that’s how it is.  What if my roommate turns out to be a macho young fellow.  Then that’s how it is.  What if it rains and pours for the whole trip?  So be it.  My heart will be open.  My spirit will soar.  Whatever happens, I expect to be stunned into silence every day.

I’m so glad I’m going.

Make Some Noise … Listen to the Quiet

I went to a hockey game last night.  The London Knights (ages 16-20) were playing Niagara.  I didn’t handle it very well.  The announcer regularly yelled out “Make Some Noise”, accompanied by flashing red lights.  A noise meter calculated the crowd’s response.  Sigh.  I just didn’t want to.  Then there were the fights.  One time, a London player slugged a Niagara player so that he dropped to one knee.  Some unnecessary portion of the fan base squealed with delight.  I just didn’t want to.  And I shouldn’t omit the work of the referees.  The fellow beside me favoured section 113 with many calls to arms, such as “Hey, ref!  You suck.”  I truly didn’t want to join in.

I guess I’m a queer duck.  What I most enjoyed during the evening was singing “O Canada”, watching some sublime passing plays by the Knights, and walking through the concourse between periods, silently sending “I wish you well” messages to the people I saw.

As for the game, my zip was zapped.  Other times, I would stand up and cheer when the Knights scored.  Not last night.  And that could have been me dancing in the aisle during a stoppage in play.  Another evening, that is.  I just need quiet now, as I deal with Jody’s death.

And the quiet was today.  I went for a walk on the classic old golf course that’s around the corner from me.  It’s snowed a lot lately but I didn’t think that would be any big deal.  I was wearing my heavy boots.  I wanted to find my way to the back holes, the ones with tree-lined fairways far from the road.

I discovered that the snow was shin deep, and sometimes to my knees.  But amid all that I was surrounded by silence.  An occasional crow cawed.  The seagulls, however, flew over my head with nary a peep.  Yes please.  I talked to Jody when I stopped making footprints in the snow.  I stood and cried for my dear wife.  I sang her “Annie’s Song” and I almost made it all the way through.

The crunching continued and I started to poop out.  Looking through my sunglasses, I realized that I didn’t have very good depth perception out there.  If the drift ahead of me was climbing to the right, I couldn’t tell, and then suddenly I was knee deep in fatigue.  The seeing was complicated by my little friends the floaters, who sure move around my field of vision a lot.  And as I pulled my feet out of holes, I started worrying that if I fell down I might not be able to get up again.

As I rounded one corner on a fairway at the back of the course, I looked way ahead and saw a human being, sort of.  Actually it was a snowman.  It became a talisman for me … Get to the snowman.  And I did, minutes later, and quite heavy of foot.  I said hi and shook his little stick hand.  He was the only one around, and I was pretty sure he didn’t think I was crazy.  It was comforting to chat for a few minutes.  Then we said goodbye to each other and I plodded onward.

A long hill, complete with a few sections that touched my knees, had me thinking about mortality.  I had to stop every twenty steps or so to get my breath.  It reminded me of mountaineering movies I’ve seen where the climbers were making such slow and painful progress at high altitudes.  The St. Thomas Golf and Country Club is not exactly Everest, but I could relate.

I was exhausted, and Jody was there to help.  “You’re doing great, Bruce.  I’m proud of you.”  Thank you, my wife.  I plotted a route where I wouldn’t lose elevation as I aimed for the clubhouse parking lot.  Slow, slow, slow.  And then I saw some angels – footprints in the deep snow.  When I got to them, I noticed that the person’s boot size was pretty close to mine.  Yay.  And so I stumbled from hole to hole, thanking my newfound and currently absent friend for his or her generosity.

I made it.  Solid asphalt.  The winding road took me to the course entrance gate and back to civilization.  Thank you, Jodiette.  Thank you, the silence.  Thank you, winter wonderland.  You’re where I need to be.

Walking in Port

Port Stanley is a cute village on the shores of Lake Erie, about four kilometres south of where I live in Union.  It was time to do a bit of strolling.  Pretty cold with a fair wind sweeping across the lake.  But the sun shone bright all day!  Toque and mitts well placed, I set off from the downtown.

Gosh, it felt good to move the legs.  I’ve done so little of that since Jody died.  I wanted to walk the long cement pier on the west side of Kettle Creek.  The snow had drifted high, and footprints stumbled unevenly along the way.  The flecks of diamond were in every drift.  I crunched along, trying to stay in the human holes, but I was jostled this way and that.  And I loved it.    Actually putting out some physical effort.  Yes.  Where oh where had my body gone?  Well, I know the answer to that.

When I stopped in the sun to look across the harbour, all was silent.  Even the wind was quiet.  Coming towards me on the path was a tiny human.  I thought I saw a dog beside, but a minute of walking towards each other proved that to be a mirage.  This was the only person I had seen so far … and I had an apparently strange thought.  “Make a contribution to his life, Bruce.”  When we reached each other, we both stopped and smiled.  And talked for five minutes – about the sketchy footing, the sun on our faces, the beauty of Port Stanley, and his home, Port Dover.  Just ordinary chat, but I knew that the contribution was made, in both directions.

When I got a clear view of the lake, I saw that the ice was all tumbled up, especially at the horizon.  Four little specks of humanity were way out there, frolicking on the white sculptures.  Now the wind was blasting hard.  Although I had thoughts of an heroic shoreline amble, my face turned itself onto a street that parallels the beach, where buildings would protect me from the breeze.  Ahh.  Heat those bones, Mr. Sun!

I walked by GT’s on the Beach, a roadhouse with a large patio facing the water.  Jody and I had sat on that patio many times over the years, watching the seagulls, watching the volleyball players, watching each other.  I was stopped by my sorrow.  A tree overhung the table where we often sat.  And Jody spoke.  “Yes, Bruce, I am this tree too, and I want you to sit under it again come the summer, hopefully with friends.  I’ll be there too, husband.”  I’m sure you will, my dear wife.  I’ll do as you ask.

At the end of the street was a dipsy doodle path that wound between tiny cottages before emerging onto another road, one with grand old homes.  And on I went.  After climbing an asphalt hill and turning right, I came upon a back alley that Jody and I had often enjoyed.  Some backyards faced me, and some front ones, as the alley led me on within the wonders of silence.  A wooded hill to my right showed me patterns of sun and shadow among the trees, where Jody welcomed me over and over again.

Eventually I emerged from my reverie into the moving cars of downtown.  Cold it was, which suggested the need for hot chocolate.  So I sat in a café as my hostess melted chocolate and added whipped cream and cinnamon.  What a worthy conclusion to an afternoon out in the world.

Silence, crunchy snow, wind in my face, sun in my soul.   I liked them all.

Only Birds and Deer Need Apply

I’m visiting my friends Cam and Ann in Richmond Hill, north of Toronto.  Although most of the town seems to be dominated by huge, tall homes that fill nearly all of the lot, I’m sitting in an oasis of peace.  Cam and Ann live in a small house that’s 150 years old.  It’s part of a huge property that her uncle used to own.  He’s donated a small lake, with its surrounding wooded slopes, to the Province of Ontario, with one stipulation: no people will be allowed in this newly created conservation area.  Uncle holds the vision of a sanctuary for wildlife, untroubled by the purposeful activities of mankind.  Ann and other family members will be allowed to walk on the land until they move away from the property.  When they’re gone, no human beings will touch this earth … forever.

Yesterday afternoon, we went walking into another world.  On the shoreline, we watched an owl fly silently across the lake, and a few minutes later heard its mournful hooting.  Otherwise … silence.  The lake was frozen and was decorated with tiny animal tracks going across.  The trees were the tallest of guardians.  Some of them were the most exquisite pines – tall trunks of vibrant red topped by small clumps of needles.  Jody was there with me.

We walked to an old boathouse – a berth on the water topped by a large room with windows viewing the lake, topped by a rooftop patio.  Ann told us about the parties she had enjoyed there as a young person.  Looking down from the roof, I saw a dock extending into the lake, with two railings jutting out of the ice, and I was torn.  I imagined happy swimmers hauling themselves out of the water, lots of laughing, and peaceful moments of companionship as twilight settled over the land.

All the history of humans will end soon.  The birds will fly joyfully.  The deer will bound up and down the slopes unhindered.  A sanctuary for them, and not for us.  I was happy.  I was sad.  Life showing me all its colours once more.  Let both sides embrace you, Bruce.

Trees

They just stand there.  No goals, no fears, no deficiencies.  Just perfect in the moment, every moment.  When I need a reminder to simply be, I look at a tree.

A bit east of us on Bostwick Road (Home Road), a very tall deciduous tree welcomes me every time I pass by.  The diameter of its trunk must be five feet.  Part of me wants to know the type of tree it is, but alas, naming things is not one of my strong suits.  And actually, it’s not even an alas.  My friend big guy opens me up when I linger a moment.  His or her name could be Bob or Carol or Ted or Alice … no matter.  He just is.  The fact that he looms so high above me is fine.  There’s no sense of better or worse, bigger or smaller.

Another friend hangs out on the east side of Highway Road as I venture north to London.  On a slight curve, his leaves and branches spread wide, falling at the edges down towards the earth.  Not so lofty, this fellow.  But just about perfectly symmetrical.  The balance draws me in, and in my moments of awareness, I say “Hello, lovely tree.”  He or she smiles back.

In 1969, 1974, 1975 and 1976, another tree helped me keep going.  I was working those summers in the superheated laundry building of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton Lakes National Park, Alberta.  The sheet mangle was just about mangling me, with sweat usually pouring off my brow.  When the dizziness and exhaustion came, I looked out one of the windows to gaze upon a straggly pine, gnarled by the wind.  It was slightly uphill to that tree, and I knew that just past it, the ground sloped down to a view of Waterton Lake and the surrounding mountains – a vista for the gods.  I knew that something marvelous was just beyond my physical sight, and the laundry tree was my conduit for touching it.

Listen to the trees, Bruce.  Listen.