Lightening, Comets and Forest Fires

Sheets of lightening blanketing the sky above Bastion Mountain in the evening before dark had come. Glen and Rebecca watched it flash. Later that evening, Marcia and Wyona noticed a fire half way up the mountain, just above Cedae Brae Point. They called 811 to report the fire. “Yes, we have been notified and thank you.” We walked down to their porch, for ours porch is nestled in trees and although we are closer to the fire, we could not see it. Both the small binoculars and the large ones were passed among the eight adults who sat on the porch in the evening, watching the fire flare and creep up the mountainside.

Underneath the porch was the annual sleep out – driven by the scientific fact that on August 11th the earth passes through an old comet tail. Shooting stars light the sky all night. By tipping ones head slighty backward on the upper porch it was possible for the adults to see the shooting stars and the flames from the fire at the same time.

By morning helicopters were dropping water on the fire. “They look like mosquitoes but you can see the stream of water when it is dropped and work your way upwards to see the machine,” Wyona described. When that didn’t control the fire planes came in, dropping a pink liquid to help control the fire’s spread.

We have been talking about the wealth in the B.C. forest this year – a good reason for not privitizing the land, the environmentalists among us say. “Yes,” said Glen, “and the reason that the government so aggressively fights forest fires.

An amazing night – 3 forms of brightness: lightening, fire and comets streaming through the atmosphere.

Arta

120 - Revisited

... the view toward the Narrows ...

As I was leaving her house last night, Desiree said, “You are going up the 120 logging trail tomorrow morning at 6 am with me and the men,” confirming with me that I would be in the truck for the next mountain biking trip. I didn’t know another trip had been planned. My impulse was to say I was too tired to go. Rebecca and I would be putting Alex on the bus for Victoria at 12:55 am.

Out of my mouth came the words, I am in. Four hours sleep would be a gift and the invitation to ride up the Larch Hills with the men who keep exploring the biking trail system on the Larch hills is such a privilege.

“Such a blog post this is going to make,” laughed Rebecca and Bonnie when I was trying to recap the adventure for them tonight.

Glen took the middle seat on yesterday’s trip, his legs in a 45 degree angle from his hips so that Dave could do all of the gear shifting necessary on the way up the hill. Today I decided to intercept Glen on this second trip and take the middle seat myself. I have 2 good hips as opposed to his artificial ones and I had a good strategy on positioning. I got myself into the middle of the cab and put one leg on either side of the gear shift. I told Dave I am comfortable with all of that shifting that would be going on in that open triangle of space if he was comfortable with my left leg bumping up alongside his leg that was operating the gas pedal.

“You can’t do that,” said Glen. “Dave and I have done this before,” I replied, “and this system works for us.”

Glen buckled up. “Better that we should keep the rules of the road,” that said, nodding to Teague, Nathanial and David Pilling who were loaded in the back of the truck with 4 bikes. Those of us up front chatted on the way up the hill. I told the men that this was like another shore excursion taken from my home which I now see as just a landlocked cruise boat.

... directly above our place in Annis Bay ...

Dave said that he and Moiya have the potential for a bed and breakfast with their home on the lake, but when people call, Moiya either says she is booked or too busy to take guests. Glen agreed that theirs should be advertized as a Biking Bed and Breakfast offering an early breakfast and transportation up the hill by 6:30 am for serious bikers. $100 for a room for the night and $25 for the trip up the mountain. I thought the price was low, knowing that no excursion from the boat is that cheap.

Glen had his IPAD in hand with a map of the Shuswap area, honing deep into it until we could see all of the trails of the mountain we were on, a blue dot moving slowly along the line of the logging road that Dave’s truck was climbing. No possibility of getting lost. “Wouldn’t our Dad have studied this application, thinking he had died and gone to heaven,” I said to Glen.

"Yes," he replied. I was up in this area he said, quickly switching the application to show a cut block along the Seymour Arm. "I was looking for a bridge to assess as to its safety yesterday at work, couldn’t find it, but drove with the GPS right to where the map said the bridge was ... and found it, sitting over a dry creek bed."

... the thrill of being on the new road ...

Glen and Dave chatted about the ways that the marketable trees had been cut, fallen and stacked as the road we were on had been cleared in the spring. Glen showed us how to tell if the trees had been snapped by a machine, or hand cut. He told us how foresters make maps so detailed and you can tell which of the trees are to be cut, and then how they voluntarily hand those maps over to the government so that they can check if trees that are not to be cut have been taken.

“Great guys, the foresters”, Glen commented. Our political discussion revolved around the difference in Alberta and British Columbia politics around the land: privatization vs public ownership.

“That is the NDP for you,” says Dave.

“Call it by any name,” said Glen, “the people of this province value and protect their environment. It is a mind-set. I think it is privatization, the need to own and protect land that starts so many wars.” The conversation shifted again, the truck moving up and down roads as Glen tried to find the perfect trail for the day – one that has its head at Bog Lake (known to our family as Lost Lake).

“Any life in the lake?”

“Lots of frogs,” replied Glen.

“What if we came in and stocked it with fish?”

“The fish would probably take over. Eat all of the frog’s eggs. The fish would slow down in the winter because of lack of oxygenization in the water through the winter, but they would inhabit the lake eventually.”

The chat changed, moving on to the size of the new landings that had been cleared by the loggers and the descriptions of the land that could only be incomplete about the beauty of the new roads they are building.

... trying to capture the rise in elevation as we drove upwards ...

The bikes were handed out of the back of the truck the bicycle wheels bouncing onto the ground when we stopped. The older bikers warmed up their hips by making a few quick circles around the cleared brush. The whole group started out ahead of us, disappearing off into the designated trail, Dave and me listening to their voices until they were too distant for us to tell who was doing the talking.

“Do you mind if we take a side trip and go up one of the new roads? I want to see if I can get closer to Bog Lake,” said Dave.

Dave drove higher. The roads were rougher. In first gear and still climbing that motion of being thrown to the left and the right was heightened. He and I kept our eyes on the road, noticing the orange berries of the occasional mountain ash or seeing again the size of the cottonwood trunks, Glen having told us he had no idea that that species even grew on this mountain, let alone the size of it.

On the trip back down the hill a new sound travelled along the side of the truck. One like the air coming out of a hot air balloon.

“I hear something new,” I said.

Dave answered in monosyllables, equal stress on each word.

“The sound of a flat.”

We got out of the car.

He looked at the passenger front tire.

“I hope you carry a spare.” That was a pretty inane comment but those were the only words I could think of at that moment.

Wordless, he got under his truck to pull one out. He then got up and looked in the box of the truck for his jack. He put his hands on the side of the truck, bowed his head and used the expletive my mother-in-law used to use. Not one of the darkest ones, but one that describes scatological functions. After a slight pause I watched him mouth another word, the sound of which I couldn’t hear, but sight-reading his mouth I am sure it was the word that rhymes with truck. Then aloud he said, “I told the men to empty the back of the truck to put their bikes in. I am pretty sure Teague took out my jack. That would be emptying the back of the truck.”

I thought, since the walk down is going to be 3 to 4 hours and we will be telling the stories of our lives, I will ask questions about the swear words later – since i wonder how he chooses the swear word of the moment, usually hearing none from him.

I said aloud, “Do you think we can leave Glen’s IPAD and my camera in the truck when we walk down. Do we have to carry them with us?”

“I don’t trust anyone, even in these remote parts,” he replied. “Let’s get them and ... can you walk?” That question was his nod to the extensive medical tests I have been having.

I didn’t see any problem. Afterall, the walk would all be downhill all of the way. We watched the kilometers as they rolled by – three of them being on the side road we had been investigating and the other eight on the main logging road. I had Dave walk three feet ahead of me for a while so I could keep my hand on his back. Later I used his arm to hang onto. Then I switched to the other side of his body, doing the same thing again. Holding his back, then his arm. The loose gravel would roll under my feet and he provided the stability that kept me on my feet.

I asked for a 10 minute coffee break after 2 ½ hours. “I forgot you might need a break. I was going straight down. Ask for one anytime you need one.”

He rolled a large rock over so that I could sit on its flat side and he lowered himself into the run off trough by the side of the road to sit on his haunches there while I rested. Hornets began to gather around me. Larger ones than those at the lake, I thought. When I could feel the tickling of them crawling between my fingers and the impulse to scratch as they would nestle in the places where my fingers join my hands I thought, life might be better on the road. Dave assisted me giving me a hand while I lowered myself from my perch and we continued downward telling stories of men we had known in the past – those of incredible moral strength, some involved with perfidity, liars, saints, those with codes of strict honour, those who conjoined those who had business acumen and a high sense of ethical behavior as well. The kilometers rolled by though I began to stop at every stream, bringing David over to the side of the road, asking him if he didn’t think there was a way for us to get in there for a sip of water for ourselves. “Look, there is an animal trail right down to the water. We could use that.”

“Yes”, he said, “we can drink and our shoes will be in mud right up to our ankles.

With 2 kilometers left to walk I said, that’s it for me David. Not one more step. I am going to sit here until you bring back someone from the lake with a jack.

“Nope. I am not going anywhere without you, Arta.”

We walked on and I told stories at a faster pace to keep my mind off of how my hip hurt. We pressed downward rounding the final curve where the foresters keep their trailer and some of their logging equipment.

Later Bonnie Wyora said, “Did you really hitch-hike on the highway? That is what I want to hear about.”

To set up what was difficult about the hitch-hiking I have to say that this year I have been listening to locals talk a place on the highway “where accidents always happen”. If an 18 wheeler is in the ditch, it is in that place. Residents are familiar with this spot. No matter that I have been coming here for 50 years. I don’t know where on the drive it is. Over the past month I have been getting familiar with that spot – which I now see coded as dangerous because the speed limit goes down to 80 kilometers per hour, there is a large yellow triangulated sign with a large winding black arrow on the highway, and there are yellow and black directional arrows on the cement abutments that line the road in that spot.

When we came off of the logging road and onto the highway it was only a few blocks of walking until we rounded a curve where I could see the western point of that dangerous part of the highway.

“Dave, promise me that we will not hitch-hike in that area. We will walk straight through. No thumbs out,” I begged.

“Don’t worry. The next car is going to pick us up,” he said as cars whizzed by, pulsed by the traffic light miles down the highway by Highway 97B. He was right. Just then Henry Dyck, a welder from Blind Bay, on his way to work in Fort McMurray picked us up. I needed a shove from the back from Dave and an outstretched hand from Henry to lift my body up into the cab.

Henry brought us home. Not just to the gravel pit, but down Bernie Road, winding his way through the forested Pillings Road, turning at Five Corners and dropping me off right at my garage.

“A Thomas the Train Home,” he said when he walked through my front room. Obviously a family man, and a friend on the highway. “What did you learn from your adventure,” Glen asked me today, continuing on to give the right answer to me, “Always carry your cell phone and second, stay at the truck. I would have come looking for you.”

Yes, I learned that, but those aren’t the learnings I would have articulated.

Mine would have been, always grasp a chance for adventure – not the adventure of the shredded tire but the one that involves riding up the new logging roads with the men and women being dropped off at bikes trails on the Larch Hills Trail System. I rank that day-trip as high as I would rank the chance to go to the Burgess Shale at Field, B.C. Or the chance to see Tiananmen Square in Beijing. Or the chance to see a rural village in Cochin, India.

Arta

1-12 on the I20

I was the passenger in the cab.

"There are  huckleberries just over the hill."

I accompanied Glen, Connor, Dave Wood (Sir Dave), and David Pilling (DL) on the ride of three of them who would be biking the trail system that cover the lower half of the Larch Hills.

 ... Dave Pilling in the side view mirror ...

I left David Doral (DD) at home in bed.

"This helmet has saved my life more than once."

The morning was early and the trail for too long for him.

“Second logging road to the left,” Glen told Sir Dave, once we turned off of Bernie Road to the Trans Canada Highway.

“I haven’t been up this road on the mountain for years.

Larch Hills Cross Country Ski Trails Welcome Sign

"I wish I had brought my maps but we will manage without," he continued.

As an afterthought he added, "I have an app on my IPod -- $10 which GPS references any map I pdf."

"Look at the size of that trunk!," Glen exclaims.  "Marvellous!"

Clearly worth it. Just forgot it.”

I kept questioning Glen about the trails we were seeing as we climbed the mountain.

.... a tree has fallen over the road ... we drive under it ...

The side paths were clearly marked and named, ie, Rubber Head, Lichen Trail, Veggie Delight.

Whose road were we on.

That was my first question – the road was carved out by Federated Coop who has a contract to log with the government who owns the land.

 “One of 12 on the I-20,”he said into a transmitter.

“I am telling people we are going up the logging road and are at kilometer one,” he said, “just to let truckers now where we are on the road so that they can tell us when to pull over as they pass by.”

The last time I road to the Large Hills Cross Country Ski Hills, Rebecca dropping Glen and Connor off that time, we had a lesson on cut-blocks.

“Small, medium or large,” he would query us.

 ... Glen in his sunglasses on the dashboard ...

This time the story was about building roads: the specs for wilderness roads as opposed to industrial roads, the cross ditching, cross drains, water bridges, the crown of the road, the material on the road – so coarse that it shreds bike and truck tires.

I had my camera, taking pictures of Dave and Connor in the back of the truck with their bikes, taking pictures of signs (Cows Grazing), noting warnings to poachers, “Area Patrolled by Federation of Wild Life Animals”.

 ... Teague and Nathanial join the group ...

I wondered how the Shuswap Trails Association finds funding for the extensive system of hiking and biking system that they have in place. “Volunteer labour, some B.C. government funding, contributions for local businesses (Skookum, SASCU).

Go to their website and you will see that they give information and ask users for contributions as well.”

... one last look at the trail before we begin ...

We left the house at 6:30 a.m. and didn’t reach the summit of the hill from where they were going to begin their drive until 7:40 a.m.

The road is old – hasn’t been brushed at the upper part of the hill for about 15 years.

Trees hung at 45 degree angles over the road.

 ... Nathanial ready to set off ...

The truck could only turn around when we found an old logging landing, the ground white, covered with daisies and everlastings.

The speed of the truck was slow – we were thrown from side to side of the cab on the way up – reminiscent to me of the time Dave and I took a dune buggy road to a Bedouin village in Egypt.

Glen points to a perfect specimen
White Pine Cone

On the way down, in order to stay away from riding his brake he stayed in first gear, eyes always on the road, dodging the potholes.

We got home at 9 am and I wondered how anything could get better than that in the day – my gratitude list already started with a once-in-lifetime excursion.

Arta

Robertson-Rhoades Wedding

...the wedding viewed from the balcony...

Today Rebecca and I were on a road trip with Glen and Connor Pilling, driving them up to the top of Larch Hills Ski Trails.

... let's drag our chairs a little closer ...

On the drive we were telling them about the Robertson Rhoades Wedding.

What can be said more than that the wedding was perfect.

The wedding vows exchanged between the couple matched the elegance of the setting.

The piper played Mull of Kintyre to for the Processional.

... the wedding viewed from the main floor ...

Family and friends sat on the lawn or on the first, second and third decks of the Robertson summer home.

 ... Reid, and his 3 cousin groomsmen ...

Beverages were served before the wedding to the guests who waited under a brilliant summer sun, enjoying the flowers and chatting with old and new friends.

Cousins who haven’t seen each other, for a year or two, with new babies of their own, greeted one another.

"Wake up, Uncle Reid is getting married!"

The sky was blue.

The sun shone brilliantly.

Bishop Papworth married the couple.

Chelsea Bates at the wedding.

Then there was an exchange of vows, the Wrapping of the Tartan, the Pinning of the Crest and the Final Exchange of Vows.

Rebecca and I tried to explain to Glen and Connor the sweetest event of the ceremony.

Reid and Misty gave her daughter a family ring, Reid saying, “I know I am not your real dad but I can be your space dad and I am so glad that all of us are a family.”

 ... post-wedding candids ...

No wedding has ever top a tender moment like that.

Or such heartfelt words from an new parent.

The reception was held later in the day at the RJ Haney Heritage House at 724 Hwy 98B.

 ... later Jeremy will give the toast ...

I have passed that area a number of time but never gone in – a sweet little church, a big area for a reception, small paths that lead through wooded areas.

The families ate, listened to speeches, and danced to a DJ until the night fell in upon us.

The male cousins carried Reid high on a chair, Jewish style.

formal and casual
suit and sandals

For old times sake Reid, Teaque and Trent mimed PeeWee Herman’s famous song that ends with the shout Tequila.

In the case of the modernized rendition of this song, the audience shouted Kool-Aid.

A tree trunk had been sketch onto a large poster board.

My name is Andrew. Would you like a drink?

Willing guests put their thumbprint on the tree and then signed their leaf thumbprint with a felt pen – a fantastic memento / guest book for the event.

While the relatives wildly danced to music from every decade, the bride and groom circulated through their guests giving heartfelt thanks, and a personalized story to the person they were talking too of why that guest was important to them. I

 was touched by mine.

 ... Naomi and Zoe follow the sign to the wedding ...

“Thank you for coming. Your presence means a lot to me.”

 I could have, but didn’t return the compliment – the presence of Reid in the larger family configuration has meant a lot to the rest of us as well.

Jeremy’s toast to the groom seemed to be spontaneous, but the crafting was too perfect for it to have been off the cuff.

... Naomi is ready to walk to the wedding ...

He used the metaphor of coming out of cold lake water and needing the comfort of a warm towel to tell the audience that Reid had shown Jeremy that it is OK to practise the model of the warming up to the world, as opposed to the model of taking the cold like a man.

Misty’s mom had a paper in front of her carefully reading each paragraph.

I sat there knowing that each of the sentences coul have been an essay in themselves.

Zoe comes to check if the Johnson's are ready to attend the wedding.

I tried to read between the lines as she spoke.

 Misty’s brother, Cory, was cogent and clear.

Darla Robertson and Cohl added their compliments to Reid.

... meeting old friends is fun ...

No blog post can cover all who spoke – feel free to add comments to this post since I can only type 1/100th part.

Arta

Sheet Lightening

Invariably, late in the evening, someone will ask, what were your favorite three things today. The question came up last night when we were sitting inside the house at the kitchen window, watching the sheet lightening filling the sky beyond Old Sicamous Mountain. To add ambiance we had darkened the kitchen, sitting there with only a candle, mocking ourselves at first because it is not a good idea to have a wooden candle holder, not matter how beautiful the tree root is out of which it was created. But soon that flame was snuffed out by Rebecca saying, “Too bright in the darkness that surrounds us between flashes of lightening.” I smelled the wine they were drinking, asked for my opinion about its smell. “Too bright? Too musky? Too fruity?” I am a novice with such smells and could only say that if this were a piece of new food and I was asked to eat it, I might say that I think it is over-ripe and would prefer not to, unless I was under edict to force it into my mouth. They laughed and said, yes, I had it just right.

We were at the end of a lovely evening. The.re had been two private parties going on at our house in different rooms. One was a Going-into-Grade-Three Party for Naomi and David. They were watching a movie and eating treats. In another room there was a “Going-into-Kindergarten Party for Audra and Rhiannon, and they too had age appropriate treats and films. Lurene had walked down to see Miranda and her babies who had left to go back to Calgary that morning. There was also a Werewolf Party going on at the Bates house – a game which starts out with screaming that only escalates until the game is over. Duncan and Xavier walked home from that event in what felt like a starless sky to them. They only got as far as the Woods (next-door, for those unfamiliar as to how far they had gone – up one driveway and down the next). They made a phone call for help from there. So Rebecca walked a flashlight down to them. By the time we were ready to go to bed, Alex should have been ready to come home from the same party, Rebecca was too tired and said she was going to bed. Bonnie and I, concerned Aunt and Grandmother, were walking a flashlight down to him – two really, leaving one and using one for the return trip as it was dark. The bushes moved and a speeding creature ran toward us, past us, back to us – sprinting in the darkness – Alex coming home with only the help of the light of his cell phone. “Slimguy? Or is that you, Goatman?”, she said, alluding to the names of protagonists in campfire stories the names of which all of the older children are forbidden to mention when they are in the company of eight year olds and under. In fact Duncan has been forced to say in their presence, that these creatures are not real. All he can cough out is “Some people think they are real, but personally, I don’t.” Well, that is a small comfort. Bonnie and I had seen Greg earlier in the day at the intersection of the Trans-Canada Highway and MacDonalds. He was not in MacDonalds, which is where Wyona and Darla had both been for lunch. He was stalled at the left-turning lane light. Bonnie yelled from our yield lane that was cutting into the Trans-Canada going back east, “Greg, GREG! Do you need help.” He signalled that he had already called for a tow truck. In the evening he told us that he saw us at 2 pm. The tow truck came at 3:30 pm. He said that from that vantage point he saw a lot of drivers run the yellow light and he watched the frustration of others who lined up behind him, not noticing, I guess, that he had on his flashing blinkers and the lid to his car engine was up. That 1988 Olympic Van might be destined for Vehicle Heaven, though it has been pointed in that direction many times before and then been revived before passing through the pearly gates to be then scavenged by others for parts. If this was to be its last day on the road, it had made a final trip to the dump, one where Greg said he threw his garbage in and then brought home someone else’s garbage – a table that is now set up in their garage ice-cream parlour and a small pink kiddies pedal car which Greg washed up to a bring shinny newness. I watched Kalina ride it for a minute. In the next 60 seconds she had back it up into Ivan’s toes and now trapped, he was crying out in pain. On this point, yesterday their house was at what our family calls for us a critical mass –28 people and two dogs, one of which is blind. The blind dog could be taken off the leash on the porch for a run around its perimeter, someone told me.

Yesterday some on our property saw Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Rebecca kept the kiln going so that she can get her pottery fired. Two twelve by twenty-four inch pans of cinnamon buns came out of the oven, since the 53 butterhorns from yesterday are all gone. I don’t like rolling the buns in the sugar and butter by myself and Richard was the one passing through the kitchen when I needed that help. I roped him in and to pay him for his efforts I tried to entertain him with stories about Aunt Erva and why I call those buns Aunt Erva’s Cinnamon Rolls whenever I teach the method on now to make them to someone. I don’t know what exists on paper about her life. I tried to write a short story on my mother once, and I began by saying, Wyora had a sister-in-law named Erva, and then the story morphed into all-about-Erva. I was writing for a mother’s day event at the library, one where we were posting vignettes about our mothers on the wall of the lunch room. I never did get something up about my mother, but I did post the side-story about Erva. Arta

Last Day at the Wheel

Whoops, that's a close up.

There's always the fear that something will happen. The pots won't get bisqued. They won't get glazed. Some will crack. Any number of things could go wrong.


Rebecca and Naomi took pictures as though they were teenagers. Rebecca's favorite is the one-eyed Naomi. Naomi likes it too and she gave permission for it to be published.

Xavier and Rhiannon had bowls that still weren't out of the kiln. That was the main reason for the run to Pilling's Pottery Corner.

Looking for these?

Naomi and Rebecca ran down to the wheel first thing in the morning. There was no time for breakfast.
They just grabbed the whole tupperware of Cinamon Buns. They knew that after all they could eat there would still be lots left over.

It feels good to document the fact that mud can be turned into something as beautiful as a dish, a mug, or a necklace. Hard to know which is the most fun: unlimited icecream sandwiches, super frosties, or fudgsicles. Arta says it is the joy that everything was less than 1/2 price. You can't beat that for happiness.

Which of us was holding the camera?

Best friends at the Pottery Wheel

The Climbing Wall

Meighan at the climbing wall

Now does this look like alternative fun to being at the lake?

Meighan reports to her dad that this was her favorite part of her friend's birthday party.

There is some daring in that girl that she doesn't get from me.

Arta

Meighan's favorite part of a birthday party