A tight crop of a 200mm frame. The crescent moon is 6% or 7% illuminated.
A crystal clear morning. Venus came up in the morning dawn. The sun caught the top of the peaks in the west before it rose over the mountains. The thin moon rose just before the sun. It was an old waning 6%. Due to its thinness and the morning light it was hard to see. I needed the binoculars to spot it at first. A Robin came and sat close to me and a heard of young Bighorn Sheep ran, about 50 yards in front of me. The way they were going I expected to see something like a coyote or cougar on their heels, but nothing. Something riled them however. The river is still clear and runs slow beside the tracks. Not long now the wetlands will be full. Next moon probably. Very fine morning.
Sometimes when you feel bad the best you can do is put one foot in front of the other and count it as a victory and let that small little victory lead to a little bigger one. The world often doesn’t see you the way you see the world. The world won’t see you hurt if you keep putting up small victories. Even if that’s only one foot in front of the other. Sometimes you may climb out of bed and think I don’t think I can do it. But you laugh knowing you’ve felt that way before. And you put one foot in front. And you look for those little miracles along the way. That squirrel on the line catching Pedley’s eye. The way her fur rises on her shoulders as she turns to attention. The commute, earbuds with Above and Beyond, that’s something, that drop after meandering through an electronic corridor, then a slow rise, getting faster with one door opening after another into brighter colours. Into work, like so many, but it’s not just a job, it’s to help others with the same hollowness that was nagging you earlier. It’s the realization we are so alike and different. Things are both terrifying and beautiful. And you put another foot forward and you count another victory and you hold a hand out and pull another like you up. And you put another foot forward. Soon the slow days, the hard days and the good days all become miracles.
The Milky Way above the Fairmont Range. The Dark Horse Nebula can be seen to the right of the central bulge of the Milky Way.
Willow and I were up early. The moon was due to go down at about 4:30am. Our goal was to catch a bit of the Milky Way before the coming sun started to wash it.
We were off for the end of the lake. The pick-up slid in the mud. It has been clear and warm during the day, but chilly at night. We broke through the ice skimmed over the mud holes, churning this way and that trying to stay out of the ruts.
Just about at our parking spot, damn near level with the lake, I underestimated a strip of mud, letting the truck slide deeper and we were stuck.
There was no going forward or back. We were already in four wheel drive. I shifted the beast into 4 low and it still wouldn’t budge.
I got out and surveyed the situation. It is usually a foot and a half step to the ground out of the truck. This morning the step was just about level with the mud. We were stuck. It was dark. There was only one thing to do. Go looking for the Milky Way.
Willow looked at me sideways as if to say, this is where we are going to park?
We walked up the hills overlooking the lake. Willow stayed close with the coyotes yipping.
The moon was down in the west. The Milky Way stretched east to south. Antares, the heart of Scorpius was well up above the horizon. The Prancing Horse whinnied as if chuckling at our predicament.
We walked to the waters edge. The geese were at it, establishing territory, gearing up for flight. Once it started to get light we headed back to the truck.
I laid some broken branches in a corduroy fashion, shovelled mud and water and did some rocking, lots of rocking. Finally, like a stubborn tooth, the muck let loose and the ship sailed onto solid ground.
The only way out was forward, so I had to turn around and go back through the cranky puddle. Fortunately, I had realized the err of my ways and picked a more favourable route without incident.
Once home it was like Lisa knew I had got stuck. It could have been we were later than usual or the mud soaked up to my knees. She reminded me I wasn’t thirty anymore. I assured her we weren’t stuck, just parked for a while.
Dad and I used to go up Shuswap Creek. The road was always bad. Perfect for the old Scout. The road followed a narrow draw that rose quickly to the foot of Mt. Baldy. The creek was just off the side of the road, 10 or 20 meters below. As a youngster, it seemed like a special place to me. Perhaps so, because large Cedar trees grew beside the creek, these trees seemed rare and majestic to me. Or maybe it was the abundant rabbit and grizzly bear tracks Dad would point out along the way. I remember once, Dad and I were stuck up there while we coaxed life back into the Scout. At the time, it would have bothered me naught if we were ever to return.
By the time I was a teenager the lower bridges had washed out and slides devoured the road. To conquer Baldy meant a sturdy walk through the Cedars. I did it often. I considered planting tracks beside a Grizzly’s an honour.
When I was young I made plans for the city. I wasn’t sure if I would ever come back. It was the middle of winter. Before leaving, I grabbed my skiis, skins, tent, bag and pack. I was determined to have one more look. I skied as high as I could and pitched a saggy tent. The night was long, starry and beautiful at the foot of Baldy.
The next day on the way back out I took a nasty fall and was lucky not to tumble into the creek.
Many years later, long after I was back from the city, I went back to find a couple items I left behind up Shuswap Creek. One was a tent pole. It was easy to find. It was right where I left it. The other item was a knife that fell out of my pack when I took the tumble. It was harder to find. But there it was about ten meters below the spot.
On that trip back into the Shuswap, I noticed a large Cedar that seemed to be growing leaves. On closer inspection, I discovered, it was a dead Cedar and a Birch had grown up through the rotting center.
I went back and told Dad. He was beyond hiking at this time in his life. He wasn’t surprised I found the pole or the knife, but he was interested in the tree. Where exactly was it – before the second bridge?
Later, over crib or coffee, between laughs we would talk about that tree. How phenomenal it was to find.
The knife, the pole, leaving home, youth, old-age – all of it was left behind and unimportant. We talked about the trees, the Grizzly, the drumming chicken, slides and runoff.
A quick lash across the cheek with a red willow, wet, barely thawed. A mighty sting. That’s what it was like walking behind you. No need to fetch a switch when they lined the trail, caught up on hips and shoulders, or pulled back to make going easy and finally letting loose, in whip and spray. And you turning, ‘What’s wrong?’
Willow and I were first in the mountains then down the lake, on the west side, anticipating the return of the galactic centre. Willow barked at the coyotes yipping. An owl started up somewhere behind us, then was quiet, maybe busy filling it’s belly with an unlucky vole.
The Milky Way curved from north to south. The stinger of Scorpius glowed red, a smear of greenish northern lights, turning magenta over the Giant Chief Nutmuq¢in.
An imagined glacier under foot. Even Willow bought into my tall tail, and gave me the cautious look of, let’s not fall through. You worry to much old hound, just the same, there is coffee an’ a muffin waiting. Plus we had our proof, spring is really on its way.
Despite grey forecasts the day turned blue. The lengthening days feel like a gift. Willow and I headed for the bush. The snow was soft. As soon as we were off the trail Willow sank up to her chest making it tough. I wandered off here and there to check the willows for buds, bending the juniper to test for spring. I have promised Scarlett and Copper I will show them how to make a bow and arrows this year. It was long ago my dad taught me. I’d almost forgot. Some willows have sprouted fuzzy buds. It was hard to not keep looking skyward even with ice underfoot. The ravens tossed themselves like oily rags at one another. The songbirds puffed their chests towards the sun, reenergized in the promise of spring. They will sing constantly soon. Become vibrant again looking to attract a mate. The owls will roost and hoot before light. Willow sniffed and pawed at the thawing smells. A mouse under the snow, a discarded bone, feathers lost or taken, and droppings of all the animals that shared the trail through the winter, under the stars and through the storms and cold spells. To finally examine them. Do they tell their stories to Willow? It is me who can only wonder. I am the odd man out, but where I belong, with the sun shining, my face warm, with more creatures than I can see smiling with me on a blue day before spring.
Lisa carefully navigating the log across Windermere Creek.
The temperatures spiked above freezing and with that came rain. The snow has been melting. The lake has a couple inches of water on top of a couple feet of ice.
We found some time to head out on behind Swansea. Once off the pavement the backroads turned to solid ice. We stopped for a short walk to a small pond. Lisa took three and sunk up to her crotch in the soft wet snow. It was imperative to pick your route.
Willow enjoying a brief blast of sun on her soaking coat.
Willow fetched sticks in the water. Barking at them, chewing and then bringing them to us for another swim. Her wire hair is about as long and curly as it gets. When she is wet she smells every bit a dog.
The clouds lifted for part of the day and we had some blue skies. The Sun felt good.
Lisa and I went looking for birds and spotted a couple Bald Eagles that let me take their picture. We searched for an American Dipper but had no luck. We saw chickadees, hawks, ravens and flickers. They seemed as happy for the sun as we were.
Willow following the creek looking for dippers.
Willow’s Christmas sweater Lisa made for her. The idea was to keep the snowballs off of her, but there is no way she will wear it.
Very strange winter. We have had plenty of snow, but temperatures have been unusual. We haven’t had any double digit minus temperatures. The lake doesn’t have enough ice to drive on yet. Many days throughout December have been above freezing.
2024 is in the books. It was a good year. Lisa and I will have to find a better work/life balance as we both worked plenty of hours with not many breaks. It is funny to think, turning 60 this year, and not having pensions, we only have another 10 years of work left to put a little away to ease us to the grave. I say this in jest as I wouldn’t want it any other way. In the past I had a taste of working for the government with the big bloated pensions they offer and it wasn’t for me.
Did a few hikes, but not as many as I would have liked. A few injuries caught up with me. Not surprising considering.
2024 had some incredible northern light displays as the sun reached a a solar maximum in it’s 11 year cycle. Lisa and I were lucky to spend several nights in the mountains under the spiking auroras. The auroras were so strong on one occasion that I was able to detect them when it was still light.
It would be nice to get some cold weather and blue skies, we are half way through winter for Christ’s sakes. Freeze some pipes, bring out the stars so bright you can hear them while all the ancient ghosts take your breath. Freeze the gas line, kill the battery, make the old truck crank and moan. Rosy the cheeks, remind us of all the bits we froze as they only hurt now in the cold. Telling us we can always light it all on fire if we really need to get warm.
Palliser Pass 