Another adventure

The sun is setting on a mid-November day, clear and cold. With a week of wintery temperatures ahead - highs are supposed to stay around -10, nights get as low as -26 - it is unlikely that the snow blown in by a biting northeasterly wind yesterday will go away any time soon. 

Early tomorrow we will be on our way to explore another part of South America. For the next four weeks we will be travelling in Peru and Bolivia, and once again I will exchange musings from the farm for musings from afar. 

Thus I will not post here but in my travel blog, 

'Every Day Is a Journey'

http://susannetravels.blogspot.ca


 Shortly after midnight tomorrow we will be in Lima ...

Galiano

Time has changed back to where it is supposed to be – officially, in any case, though I can’t see any reason why it should. It is 5:30 pm. The black tops of the spruce trees visible from my window are sharply outlined against the last faint tangerine hue in a rapidly darkening sky. November, time of long nights and quiet days, has begun. All day snowflakes danced in the breeze, and the bird feeder, put up only yesterday, is again the popular meeting place for chickadees, blue jays and woodpeckers. ‘Back to normal’, some will say, and indeed it is time for all of this now, the year slowly winding down. While I lament the time change, much more appreciative of the hour of daylight at the end of the day instead of its beginning, I have no issue with the declining light itself.

It was a wonderful, long autumn here this year, one of the longest I remember, and since this is my favourite season I once again decided to prolong it a bit more by spending some time on the west coast. This time my destination was Galiano Island.  I had never been there before and had chosen it on the recommendation of a friend who lives on the west coast. What would I find there? Would it be able to satisfy my longing for ocean, forest and solitude?

Galiano … when I set out on my journey I didn’t know much more about it than its lovely name, round and warm on the tongue, the Spanish word so seemingly foreign in these northern waters, named after the Spanish explorer Dionisio Alcalá-Galiano who explored and mapped the area at the end of the 18^th century. I knew it was the first ferry stop in the Southern Gulf Islands coming from Vancouver, and that it was long and narrow. Beyond that I knew very little.

I set out from Vancouver on Monday morning, making use of its excellent transit system by taking first the sky train, then the bus to Tsawwassen ferry terminal. After barely an hour on the ferry, most of it spent outside since it was such a beautiful sunny and warm day, I set foot on Galiano Island. Since I didn’t have a vehicle I had prearranged to be picked up at Sturdies Bay terminal; the three kilometre walk would have been a bit awkward with a duffle bag on wheels and shopping bags with groceries for the week, picked up at the ‘Galiano Garage’.

And then, once I had settled in at my little cabin, time ceased to matter. For one whole week my days were spent either at the beach and in the forest or writing and reading at the table by the window of the cabin. From there, I could see the ferry passing by on its way to the other gulf islands: enough leaves had fallen to allow a glimpse of the water through the trees.

How, when we set out on a journey, places are just names, strangers to us, and we to them, skeletons without features. And how, after spending some time with them, they are fleshed out and become etched into our memories, some so deeply that we can never forget the quality of light on a late autumn afternoon, the soft, moist cover of moss on the leeward side of a tree, the bright tinkling of shell shards stirred by the waves. It doesn’t happen everywhere, of course, but when it does we know that we have found another little piece of our home here on this beautiful earth. Sometimes, finding this comes as a surprise, a place at first sight unlikely to make me feel that way, at other times it is anticipated. Forest, ocean and solitude are important ingredients for me, so Galiano had a good chance of becoming one of the places where I would feel at home.

 

I set out to explore the beach accesses – three of them in easy walking distance – the first evening. Bellhouse Park, two thirds of the way back to the ferry terminal, is one of the best known spots on the island, a small provincial park with a view of neighbouring Mayne Island and Active Pass. The path down to the beach leads through Garry oak and arbutus trees across smooth rock bulging up from the water like whales’ backs. Wind and ocean sculpted these lime stones into interesting formations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Matthew’s Point, my favourite beach, however, was even closer, yet felt more remote, at least at this time of year when hardly any tourists are around. Only about five minutes up the road a small sign simply said ‘Beach Access’ to indicate the start of a narrow foot path. Entering the dark forest I almost immediately passed by a cluster of cedar trees bent outward not far from their base; to me, it looked like arms opened to a welcoming embrace. Douglas firs and cedars continued for a while, interspersed from time to time with some knobby maple trunks, huge, sail-like leaves a soggy carpet at their feet. After a few hundred metres the trees moved further apart, and suddenly I could see the water far below. A sign warned of a very steep decline, and the path turned sharply downhill, switchbacking through loose stands of trees. For the last hundred metres or so a thick rope provided extra support if necessary, but the ground was dry and sandy and even on the only rainy day I experienced it was not really slippery.

 

To step out onto the stretch of beach I entered now was like stepping into a little paradise. To my right, it stretched for maybe a quarter of a mile, but only about fifty metres to the left, with two high cliffs standing guard on either end. The south facing beach, comprised for the most part of small pebbles with only a few sandy areas, was thus well sheltered from the elements. The quiet waters of Active Pass separate it from nearby Mayne Island. It looks just a stone throw away, but when I saw two big BC ferries pass each other in the deep channel closer to Mayne I realized that the distance must be bigger than I thought. More than once I watched this, one ferry on its way to Vancouver Island or maybe Saltspring, the other heading for Tsawwassen. The deep, mournful sound of the horns – interestingly not all having the same pitch – echoed in the narrow channel, resonating in my body like the vibrations of a singing bowl. From time to time a float plane passed overhead, but much of the time it was quiet.

Gulls wheeled in the distance, their light coloured bodies against the dark green  of the forest swirling in a funnel like leaves caught by a gust of wind. Ravens flying by gnarled at each other in monosyllabic conversation, and once or twice two bald eagles circled briefly above the trees. A seal swam close to the shore, its curiosity driving it closer and closer to where I was sitting before it quickly dropped below the surface without a sound. Then, suddenly, a strange recurring snorting in the middle of the channel, followed by a splash: a sea lion swimming lengths, it seemed, since it came back along the same path a while later.

 

I ate my lunch – usually an apple and a piece of chocolate – comfortably perched on a thick, smooth driftwood trunk and took it all in, lulled by the whisper of the waves. Only in the wake of the ferry the sea got a bit excited, the waves suddenly audible, twisting along the pebbled shore, lapping a bit closer to my feet. After a few minutes the surface was again untroubled, gleaming in the midday sun like hammered silver.

 

 

 

My longing for the ocean thus fulfilled, I’d gather notebook and pencil, slip on the backpack and slowly climb back up the hill, turning from time to time to gaze out through the trees at the water until, once again, the forest took me in completely. Once at the road I then turned left, further up the hill, to explore more of the island’s forested walking paths. Most of the time they led me up to Bluff Park, Galiano’s oldest park, established in 1948.

 

 It was Halloween when I first found my way there. I felt I was entering a fairy tale forest, huge, ancient maples moss-hung, ferns growing along their ridged flanks, the green twilight only rarely lit up by the yellow flares of leaves still clinging to branches, as surprising in their intensity as if the sun had suddenly found an opening in the dense canopy. Entranced, I listened for the sounds of this place: the faint rustle of the tree tops in a wind I could not feel so far below, the soft thud of leaves settling on the forest floor after floating down slowly, the almost imperceptible hiss of the fine drizzle.

 

Climbing higher, the path led out into the open along the edge of the cliff, right up to a point that allowed a beautiful view of Active Pass and the nearby islands.

 

Standing in the shelter of one of the long-limbed spruce trees I watched the light seep out from a bank of clouds and spread over the distant hills, shifting on the water, picking out currents before abandoning them again, like northern lights playing in the misty ocean air, and I, too, like water and hills, felt the touch of that light.

 

 

 

 

Beaver

Fall has truly arrived now, and we have had a long stretch of beautiful weather. Once again the first frost came late this year and wasn’t very hard; even now the lowest temperature to date has been -3.5 Celsius. Daytime temperatures are pleasant, just around ten or twelve degrees for the most part, which is just right for cleaning up in the garden now that harvest is complete and the grain is in the bins. There is no urgency, since there are only a row of carrots, the leeks, a few red cabbages and brussel sprouts left, and all of those are best kept in the garden as long as possible anyway.

        There is time now, too, to go for walks with Leo. It’s the time of the full moon, and if possible I try to watch it slide, huge and golden, over the horizon. Last month I was on my way home with a grain truck and just had to stop because it was too magical a moment to not take it in fully.

Moonrise at full moon - at least in the fall - usually happens right after sunset, so yesterday evening when the sun had almost slipped behind the horizon I deemed it the right time to walk across the pasture to watch the moon rise over the much shrunken pond. Amazing, how a small body of water can overflow in the spring, flooding its surroundings, yet reveal muddy banks below the grassy slopes in the fall.

I have to confess that the moon wasn't the only reason I went there, however. On a walk with Leo about a week ago I noticed unmistakable traces of a beaver's activities: the small grove of poplars right beside the pond had been farmed for building material, and quite a few of the small slender trunks had been cut down and dragged into the pond, foliage still attached, poking out of the water.

The night before I had been there right after sunset, watched the moon take a dip, joined by a few stars a little later, marveled at the pile of mud and branches that were to become a home for the beaver, or, more likely beavers. I was surprised to find myself quite reconciled with the decimation of trees, something I don't usually take very lightly. The idea that indeed a beaver - a wild thing! - had found its way into this little pond, a mere five minute walk from the house, was just too intriguing to leave much room to mourn the trees. Poplars grow up quickly again, and the ones it chose (so far, at least) weren't very old yet, except for one. There are few big old trees in that cove anyway, though I have to say that I would be very upset if the beaver decided to try his luck with the biggest of them, so thick that my arms don't reach around, but thankfully about the farthest removed from the edge of the pond.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sat down on the grassy bank by the path the beaver had created by dragging branches and small trees into the water, a good distance from the beaver house but with a clear view of it, and waited, Leo by my side. After a little while I saw the water move with a smooth, long start of a wave, more than the ripple caused earlier by the wind, and indeed, a moment later a brown head appeared, eyes wide open, followed by a broad back. The beaver calmly swam a few rounds, looking left and right, while I urgently whispered to Leo to stay still, hanging on to his collar for dear life. I can't imagine the outcome of an encounter in the water would have been very favourable for the dog. The beaver didn't notice us, I think, yet suddenly slapped the water with its tail and went under, only to reappear seconds later. I watched it for a bit longer, but when it splashed next I grabbed Leo tightly and we were on our way. He didn't even object, surprisingly, just as he had, for once, lain down beside me without an argument.

This was last night, and of course I couldn’t resist going out again tonight. It had been stormy all day, clouds drifting fast, but without shedding any rain, and the wind was undiminished by the time I walked across the pasture, tugging at my hair, bending the long grass almost to the ground.

 

Thankfully Leo had gone with Johann, so I didn’t have to worry about him, and I had my camera with me, just in case. I snuggled down in the shelter of the long dry grass on the northern bank of the pond and waited. Geese returned from their day’s forage and landed a few hundred metres away in the middle of the field, a couple of crows battled the strong winds on their way who knows where, and a tractor started up in the distance, but other than that the only sound was that of the wind in the grass. I looked around: not only was there a big pile of mud and branches, likely the main dwelling of the beaver, but there were at least three more holes in the bank. Mud had been spread above them in the grass, and in four or five places the grass had been worn down to create a path to slide into the water for the beaver.

 

 

The water was almost constantly in motion, driven by the force of the wind, and for a long time I watched the reflection of the poplars change shape, zig-zagging for a moment, suddenly becoming stable as if they had been put in focus, but soon undulating again. Every once in a while I thought I detected another of those long, slow waves that had announced the emergence of the beaver yesterday, but nothing happened. A sudden red blaze in the west indicated that the sun was about to set, showing its face under the dark grey cloud cover for just a moment before it slipped behind the horizon.  Still I waited in vain for the beaver to show up.

Suddenly the sleek head emerged. The beaver made one small round before diving beside the pile of branches in the middle of the pond, quietly, without the characteristic splash of the tail, and was gone. I smiled. While there had not been enough time to take a photo I was thrilled to be there, not to have missed it. It was chilly, and soon it would be getting dark: time to get up and go home. But wait! More movement. Now I could hardly believe my eyes, because a much smaller animal, brown and furry, poked up its head beside the brush and paddled into the tangle of branches. Was it a muskrat? The size was about right. But no, it looked different. After a moment it moved away out into the open again, and now I saw that it was unmistakably a beaver – but a very small one. So it was a family that had moved in! The little guy followed its parent, dove at the same spot and was headed, I assume, for the main house. I, too, got up, now not only smiling but grinning broadly. What a wonderful encounter!

No fear of flying

Last Saturday, late in the afternoon, I got a call from Magnus: would I like to go flying with him and a friend of ours who has a small airplane? Would I ever!  It didn’t take me any time at all to decide that the cucumbers I was just scrubbing to be pickled could wait until the next day; this was something I had been looking forward to all summer. 

We arrived at the Westlock airport at 6:30. It is, of course, not a very big affair, just a few rows of small planes parked in the field behind the hangars like cars in a very rural parking lot. A somewhat bigger plane from the Edmonton Sky Diving club just landed as we were meeting up with Georg, our friend. We walked over to his 1965 four-seater Beechcraft, its white body with the red stripe gleaming in the early evening sun.

Who would sit in the front beside the pilot? Magnus was the logical choice because he has the better camera and is the better photographer, but, the two men wondered, would I get sick in the back seat? Never having flown in a plane that small I had no idea, but was quite confident that I would be okay: seasickness is not a problem for me either, and this could not be so much worse, could it? In any case, there was no guarantee that Magnus would be less prone to motion sickness, and the pocket in the back of the front seat contained a quantity of air-sickness bags, some with the Air Canada logo. Everything was taken care of, and it would be fine.

Georg checked the oil and anything else he needed to check and we climbed in, using the wing as a stepping board. There was room enough in the back, even if my legs had been longer, and while the plane’s engine warmed up we buckled up. Looking around I was transported back to my parents’ first car, a dark grey 1962 Opel Rekord: the medium blue vinyl and quilted plush seats, the little ashtrays in the wall – the only thing missing was the slim white vase in its holder on the dash. After a few minutes of idling we slowly drove along the bumpy field to the paved landing strip. Georg got the okay to go ahead, and a moment later we were airborne. 

It was quite warm still, in the mid-twenties, and Georg told us that under these conditions we weren't rising very fast. I wouldn’t have noticed; I was absorbed with the view that became more amazing by the minute. I’ve always loved the minutes after take-off, the slow falling away of everything that normally surrounds us and defines our world.

We had about two hours to explore the greater Westlock area from the air, and of course certain points of reference were on the list of things we hoped to see: our farm, Magnus’ and Courtney’s farm, farms of friends, the Pembina River, the town of Westlock itself. 

First, however, we flew north, an area less familiar to us. Georg pointed out the Tawatinaw ski hill, our destination for cross-country skiing; from the air it was hard to believe that three lifts (admittedly short, but lifts nonetheless) provide downhill-thrill for countless youngsters from the area. It didn’t look like a hill at all, in fact. From there we followed the Tawatinaw River, a water course I had not even been aware of. It meandered in its narrow valley seamed by a wide expanse of forest, both deciduous and evergreen.  We dipped low to get a closer look at a group of maybe fifteen pelicans sitting on a hassock in the lazily moving little river, their orange feet and white feathers quite easy to make out.

Soon after we turned west. The landscape changed: fields appeared, some quite golden already, others still green, neat squares making up lively quilts, hemlines of roads, small lakes and ponds like tiny mirrors sown into the fabric. Some fields had been cut already, from a few others rose columns of dust: combines crawling along the swaths or harvesting standing barley. These were the exception, however; in general we are behind schedule because of the cool, wet summer. 

 
Magnus’ and Courtney’s farm appeared like a scene from Gulliver’s Travels. The grain trucks, noses poking out of the open shed, the yellow combine parked in front of the grain bins, unloading auger unfolded, seemed to be waiting to be pulled out and moved around by a child’s eager hands. Only a few more days until they, like us, will be busy in the surrounding fields. 

 It’s interesting to see all the blemishes, the drowned-out areas and the ones with flattened grain from the air, and it certainly heightens the anticipation: what will it be like this year? Will the combine or swather have trouble picking up the grain? Will some wet spots still be too soft to drive through? Will the yield loss due to wet conditions be considerable, or will it be negligible because the rest will make up for it? From the ground it certainly looks as if it should not be too bad, and it is hard to judge from above since we have no point of reference. 

The Pembina River

 Another change of direction, south toward our own fields and yard. By now the sun had slipped quite low already, and everything was basked in its warm light. Shadows were deepening and colours intensified: a perfect time to take it all in. Johann and Leo watched us dip and circle, once, twice, three times: opportunities to check on the garden, rows of beans and yellowing peas, the net covering red and white cabbage and my first attempt at growing brussel sprouts (unlikely to be repeated since the growing season is simply too short to produce anything much bigger than a marble), apple trees with their heavy burden, corn and the tangle of dill. Maya’s request to take pictures of her round pen and jumping course was fulfilled, too, before we turned north towards Westlock and ultimately back to the airport. 

We arrived in time to watch a chain of slowly descending parachuters land one by one like a smattering of colourful petals dropped from an invisible tree in the sky. Our brave little plane came to a halt in front of the fuel station to be replenished for the next outing. Georg and Magnus looked at me expectantly: ‘So did you feel sick at any point? Were you scared at all?’ Why would I? In fact, I found it quite exhilarating, especially diving lower, one wing pointed downward, the other toward the limitless expanse of sky above. I’d do it again any day, and I hope I will!

The end of August

Hollyhocks, too, are thriving this year

August is nearing its end, and slowly summer is blending into fall. Colours are changing, becoming at the same time muted and more vibrant. Small-flowered purple asters and goldenrod are accented by the deepening brick-red of rosehips, and the Amur Maples, their leaves far from turning colour, still flash a hint of it with their seeds, as always a couple of weeks ahead of the foliage.

Harvest in the fields is still a little while away, but it’s high season for harvesting in the garden. Every few days I pick a five gallon pail of green beans, now joined by cucumbers, while the peas are finally finished, as are sour cherries and raspberries. Taking ends off beans, shelling peas, pitting cherries are pastimes to which family and the odd dedicated friends gather on the patio in the evenings, and days are filled with blanching, canning, freezing and jam making.

Birds are appearing in larger numbers, though they are not yet gathering for their journey south.  It must simply be due to the offspring having been added to the crowd. Several times a day robins and song sparrows, today even a blue jay, gather on the rocks by the side of the pond for their daily bath, an event I love to watch. They take turns in little groups. First, they fly over to the large, flat beige rock from wherever they had perched, water lapping at their feet, and just seem to make up their minds to dip in, waiting and watching. Then, after the appropriate pause, they hop forward until their feet are in the water, dip in their beaks, take a sip, throw back their heads to swallow, all in preparation for the joyful splashing that comes next, wings outstretched, feathers ruffled, fluttering their wings until a spray of droplets rains down on their backs. A quick shake, a moment’s hesitation, and off they fly, making room for the next bird in line. 

No, nobody seems quite ready yet to leave. When I was getting salad greens this morning I heard a commotion in a tall dry poplar tree beside the garden and watched two small song sparrows balancing on two branches facing each other. One, rapidly beating its wings, was making typical baby-bird feeding noises while the other was engaged in stuffing something into its gaping beak. 

Not even the hummingbirds have left for their long journey to Central America. Day after day I wonder if this might be the last time I see them: they usually are gone soon after August 20. Not yet, however. Just at lunchtime a female ruby-throated hummingbird took its time to drink its fill at the feeder. Between long sips it rested on the arched arm of the cast-iron stand from which the feeder is suspended, oblivious (or maybe just indifferent) to the fact that its every move was being watched from behind the glass a couple of metres away. We are so fortunate to be surrounded by so much wildlife, to be able to watch and listen whenever we spend time outside!