To my brother, Doral

From Bonnie

... the road to the Shady Beach ...

My eyes opened at 4 am this morning.

It was maybe ½ hour before sunrise.

I was at the lake, enjoying the comfort of one of the new bed frames that you built.

I tried to go quietly into the kitchen to get a drink of water, but I had barely made it to the pocket door when I heard Arta call, “Hello, who’s there.”

We visited as the sun came up and then elected to start our day with a walk.

I wanted to see all of the new places that Arta had been gardening.

The tour started with gathering two walking sticks and then we headed past the bee balm that seems to have grown another 25%.

... standing at the crossing ...

The fuchsia petunias had filled out the front bed.

Only the gardener’s eye could see the cuttings from the original plants that hadn’t taken hold yet, though there are some green leaves there, so I suspect the roots are getting established.

Fox glove will be ready next year.

The volunteer zucchini plant made me laugh.

I remember Glen’s axiom, “a weed is something growing where you don’t want it to grow”, but it is hard to pull a weed when you have tried so hard to grow it elsewhere without success.

... a Douglas Fir at the Healing Circle ...

Now the zucchini plant takes over in the flower bed, its curling tendrils looking for something to climb, or winding around and around.
Even though there is a whole hill of ferns, the gardener had placed a couple of them in one of the golden compost beds. I agree with her choice. Lovely.

The tiger lilies will be coming out again next year in the early spring.

Greg's Mudhole III

I wandered down the path, past the large white hydrangeas that the children had been photographed with, blossoms as big as their heads.

We started making a list of things to do. A nice heavy patch of blackberries could be reached from the path, by children, if we cut off two long barbed vines barring the way.

We paused to give thanks to the loved one that mows the lawn, trying to move the blackberry vines from where his shoulders and arms will pass by, even though we know you just can’t tell a blackberry vine what to do.

Still we wove it back, knowing it is going to whip out again.

Greg''s Mud Hole I

We noticed the gaping hole in the bank of ferns where we had tried to remove a large salmon berry bush.

It seemed like such a drop from the top of the hill when we were cutting it out, but from the bottom we could see that we made it half way down the hill, fighting to find the mother root among all of the fresh new bushes around her.

When we checked on the path that leads up past the stream, we could hardly hear each other, since the noise of the water was filling the air.

Every year that path looks a little better, feels more stable and has fewer rocks on which to twist an  ankle, but still some.

We looked at everything, paying homage to Anita’s father as we studied the rock wall.

Greg's Mud Hole II

I gave the pear tree beside it a little shake saying aloud, “Why haven’t you born fruit for us in 10 years?” I immediately regretted my complaint, chastising a plant on the topic of fertility.

... fireweed beginning to burst ...

The tree didn’t answer but its companion down the way does have fruit on its branches – enough pears to be thinned though we didn’t stop to do it. I did touch one pear, wondering if it was turning golden. We spotted which birch bole David Wood has his eyes on, for it is dead and the next step for it will be firewood.

The Lincoln apple tree is going to give a big crop this year if the deer don’t get to it first.

I wish I had captured the size of the skunk cabbage plant that is at bottom of the Wedding Reach of the stream.

It fills that whole gully.

There is no sign of the stamen that was over a foot tall in the spring.

Its branches are perfectly formed and have not broken under their own weight.

... a work vehicle can be seen past the red apple tree...

The sound of the stream was loud there as well.

The natural beauty of the spot shows no signs of the many helpers who have been down in the stream, removing thistles and dead ferns, a collection of 10 years of neglect.

... a train comes down the track from the East ...

I think of the CPR landscaper who planned the restoration of the stream after the flood and wonder if he, like I, would still be loving its beauty.

I have the eyes of someone who has now studied this part of Larch Haven and for eleven years, when you spend time moving branches and rocks, you may have left a print on the landscape, but a bigger print has been left on you.

I have studied photos of children playing in that stream and so when I see the stream and the children are not there, I notice their absence.

I wonder if next year Michael’s body will still be able to fit into his reclining chair of rocks in the middle of the stream, just above the new waterfall.

I look at the Missionary Reach and I know something is missing, but I don’t know what it is, and I say to Arta, “Wasn’t it taller here before?”

 And she said yes, lots of work has been done here. Duncan wore his new size 14 rubber boots, and was very pleased to find out out they were waterproof when sent down into the stream with clippers in his hands.

... a dead mouse on the road...
... no other story about this ...
just that we spotted another dead mouse

And then I can remember the volunteer trees coming up amongst the rocks. They are gone now, but they will be back.

The draw of the beach was felt so we headed downhill, toward the lake.

It is a beautiful new view because of the many trees the CPR has cut down, but it is not a comfortable view, since my memory of that shady part of the road is so strong from my childhood. I can remember heading up from the beach, walking through the sun, then hitting the shady patch before running up the stairs that Sean Bates had built.

As I child I thought it was scarier getting less sun so I had a second spurt of energy to fly up those stairs past the quiet cabin and over to the noisy cabin back to the sun.

... the old red convertible is still theere ...

If I did a quick end to this post I would tell you the walk was long enough to get our heart rates up into the cardio zone.

But if I stopped here, you wouldn’t hear about the tour past Ceilidh and Gavin’s tenting home and know about the various routes for children to get to the door of the tent.

And you wouldn’t know about the chain from the old zip line that has started to choke the bole of one of the tall Douglas Fir trees.

And I would forget to tell you the secret of the orange surveyor’s tape.

It marks the huckleberry bush that Arta feasted on, the tell tale signs around her mouth which I at first thought were bruises.

... many of he old trees are gone ...

Will you come back soon and see the sweet steps that Arta has built beside the purple clematis, making it easy to access the water spigot?

... green apples spilling over the road ...

She covered the weed pile with the end of the tarp, knowing that was one chore that wouldn’t be done today unless she did it now.

On the way to the beach we saw what is starting to be known as Greg’s mud hole. An underground stream weeps between lots 6 and 7.

Once you know about the hole, you can’t help but notice the wet streak of soil that travels across the road and down toward the CPR leg that runs along their track.

... the work vehicles part jut inches away from each other ...

I notice the ground gets quite level alongside where the CPR are working, replacing rails.

And I can count the large puddle holes that are missing.

Someone has filled and levelled them, though the huge dips remain in the road as we enter the property, just about taking out the bottom of cars that don’t know they are there.

I said to Arta as we walked along, “It feels so good to have a place where you feel at home, where you know you belong. I don’t think that root can ever be pulled out of me. It was planted too early and too deep.”

...a freight train passes the work vehicles ...

I see some apple trees remain between the road and the tracks and my mouth begins to water, thinking of Dave Wood’s apple juice that he will share in the fall.

As we cross the tracks we think about Alice’s lost flip flop.

Her grief was so deep. It was not just about losing the footwear, but loosing it in that area where you could be hit by a train.

I think of other lost footwear, I remember back to when I was a child, going through the old mismatched flip flops, the ones you could find out here.

... two rows of railroad vehicles ...

And now we live in a time where an aunt who is shopping in town can receive a text and get new thongs for you before your cheeks are hardly dry. Two pair.

Across the tracks, we take a sharp right rather than heading down to the ramp.

My eyes know that the road down toward Shady Beach goes further than it did a year or more ago.

At the end of it, past the cement supports to the old logging landing, we discover a well hidden, but well trodden path leading across the stream that is there and opening just beside the area where we slept out under the stars one summer.

One whole summer, no rain.

That stream had more water then.

Now we see less, perhaps because of the clear cuts, but Glen said no that is not the reason. Still, we remember the stream being much swifter.

Oregon Grape berries

On the trip back home it is the fruit and the flowers that pop out of the background and that come to the foreground: the Oregon grape, the fireweed, the Douglas Aster, and the last few daisies hanging on into August.

As I climb the stairs to the cabin, I imagine a rail using the beautiful branches that Adam Wood used to put up a new tree house.

Adding the railing is not an improvement I can do to the land, but my knees are yearning for that help.

... climbing back up to the house ...
volunteer zucchini plant, lower left

I snap a photo of the angel statue thinking I should run ahead and move the branch and pull the tarp away, and Arta saying she wishes she could run ahead and pull the pink towel off of the railing, but I snap the photo, just as things are. I think that will be a better memory.

If I wake up at 4 am, I just may be ready for a nap at 8 am.

Oh yeah. I didn’t mention the dead mouse, but that’s all I’ve got. I have to close my eyes now.

Bonnie