Yesterday, when I went to pick up mail and do some other business in Anahim Lake,  I connected with something that really intrigued me.  This was the first trip out of the valley in three weeks, during which time breakup had been underway.

As usual, the valley bottom is clear of snow, the meadows are sprouting , the geese are in the ponds, the trails are dry and there is just a Friar Tuck fringe of ice left along the river banks in the shady spots.

I have been thinking about attempting a town trip for several days.  Part of the calculation is guessing how much snow has melted up on the mountain, which  not only is north facing, but is 1500 feet higher.  The other permutations are almost endless.  How cold has it been at night lately? Was it just a bounce, or was it freezing for several hours? How warm did it get during the day?  How much did those two days of rain last week melt the snow pack, did it snow up there when it was raining down here?

Did the culverts stay open or are they frozen solid, with the runoff washing out the road?  How many trees came down during those three or four windstorms?  Lots of questions, lots to think about.

I climbed up onto the ridge behind our place, took a look over to the southwest.  The hilltops I use as a ‘tell’ still had snow, but there were a few bare spots.  That usually means that travel, while a bit messy, is possible.

None of this is new.  The spring turnover from snowmachine to ATV and eventually a regular vehicle is an annual ritual.  But this year I got a different perspective.

According to my calculations, I could have gone out anytime in the last few days.  But there was always some little thing I felt I still needed to do; recheck the chain saw, fix the muffler on the ATV, take another look from the ridge.  Nothing specific, just not feeling ready.

I began to think about the First Nations, about the way they worked with the spirits, the gods of earth, wind and fire.  They had a myriad of rituals, routines, observances, and chants  they used to placate the gods, to ensure safe travel or good hunting.

I’ve always been skeptical of this, because I know that we mortals cannot control the weather, the movement of game, the strength of the wind, the energy that forms the universe around us.

Then it struck me.  It is about energy, but not the energy of the wind, the rivers, or the forest; it is about our internal force field. The rituals, the observances, the actions, prayers, chants, all the cultural instruction is not about the power of the gods; it is about our personal energy.

It is about us feeling ready, feeling confident, feeling the flow that makes us quiet, calm  capable, maybe even invincible.

We all operate that way.  When we feel up, we are hell on wheels, when we feel down, all crashes.  Just like a hockey team that wins one night and loses another.  It is all about the energy, the confidence, the mindset as much as the physical skill and capacity.

Sure you need the latter, but it is the former that really makes the difference.

So it is with the spring ritual. Once I have done all I feel I can do, once I have honoured the rites of observation and maintenance, once I feel ready, then it is time to go. That is what the ancient peoples of this land did with their ceremonies: they got themselves mentally ready for the challenges facing them.  It was about their energy, not the energy of the gods.

The trip had its moments, but it went as planned.  Yes, there was more snow than I had anticipated, the moose had made a real mess of it in the clearcuts creating the rough ride from hell, and sure on the way back, the deep snow was getting soft and I had to chew, slip and slide a fair amount, but there was nothing really  problematic.

All in all, just another timeless moment in the energy flows of the Western Ark.

Not all is doom and gloom in the forest sector.  In the West Chilcotin, the Redstone First Nation and the Tatla Resource Association have come together in a partnership to form B.C’s newest community forest, the Eniyud Community Forest (ECF).

The name Eniyud is itself tied to the land. In the local F/N tradition, the two prominent mountains to the south, Eniyud and Tatlow, were husband and wife, living together.  But as things sometimes turn out, they separated.  Eniyud and her children took up residence on the west side of Tatlayoko Lake, forming the Niut range.  It is for her that the Eniyud Community Forest is named.

The creation of the ECF is the latest milestone in a partnership between the two communities that started with the Cariboo Chilcotin Land Use Plan in the nineties. Then, in the spring of 2004, the West Chilcotin Demonstration Project was completed, creating land use agreements that provide multiple use options for a wide range of forest activities. The new community forest will be the vehicle for implementing these agreements in a real, on-the-ground manner. 

As part of this plan,  in order to diversify its activities and income, the ECF will look to non-timber forest products, First Nations cultural tourism, wilderness tourism and the emerging carbon credit systems as ways to complement conventional dimension forest products.

This venture is a stellar example of what dedicated, hard-working volunteers can achieve.  Without any compensation, squeezing precious time from their already busy lives, the directors of the two groups provided the impetus to get the project completed.  Without this core of volunteer support from both communities, the ECF would not be a reality.

The Tatla Resource Association and the Alexis Creek Indian Band received an invitation to apply for a Probationary Community Forest License from the Minister of Forests and Range, Mr. Rich Coleman, on July 6, 2007 with an annual allowable cut of 40,000 m3.

The gross area of the Eniyud Community Forest is approximately 115,070 ha, of which 89,449 ha is classified as productive area and 44, 048 ha of that belongs to the timber harvesting land base.

The community forest is comprised of two geographically distinct parcels. The largest, most southern parcel is approximately 106,204 ha in size, and encompasses Tatla Lake, extending south to the northern tip of Tatlayoko Lake along the west arm, and east toward Eagle Lake, then south to the northernmost boundary of Lincoln Pass, with the Xeni’Gwet’in trap line as the eastern boundary. 

The smaller parcel is 7,700 hectares in area and is located south of the Puntzi Lake chain north of the Redstone reserve and extending south to Hwy 20.

The Eniyud Community Forest shares its land base with numerous other tenure holders, including trappers, guides, woodlots, ranchers and recreation.

Both communities are looking forward to increased cooperation as the new business moves ahead, continuing to open new trails in the Chilcotin.

This seems like a slower than normal spring. The redwings have only just arrived, there is still 18 inches of snow in our big meadow and the river is barely open in the middle.  Not only that, the pussy willows up here on the ridge didn’t pop their fluffy gray heads out until two weeks ago, the garden is just a few humps under the snow, and the woodshed is alarmingly spare for the end of March.

Is this normal?  This question arises whenever  the weather is doing something we don’t like as in “Is it normal to rain this much in January? or, “It never gets this cold in July!”, and, my favourite, “It sure wasn’t like this when I was a kid…” .

Maybe this spring feels late and cold simply because all springs feel late and cold when you are waiting for that first shirtsleeve day which bursts with heat and vigour.  Or maybe this really is a slow one.   During the short term of our 23 year encampment here in the Precipice, hoping to answer weather questions and maybe even see a pattern, Rosemary has diligently kept a phenological diary,  recording the daily highs and lows along with bits and pieces about the weather.  How much sun that day, amount of snow fall, wildlife sightings, writing down  what birds arrived when; all the telltales that document the inexorable march of the seasons through the Precipice.

Although no pattern has ever emerged, this diary comes in handy when the someone says “It wasn’t this cold/ hot/ wet/ snowy/ windy/ this time last year, this isn’t normal!” Out comes the diary and the discussion, on these points at least, is settled most of the time.

The normalcy issue is not a new one. When I was a back country ranger in Tweedsmuir Park a number of years ago, I would  constantly be asked  the universal question.  I used to fumble around a bit, mumble something platitudinous, like “Yep, it sure is hot for late August”, or whatever, hoping to give people the satisfaction of experiencing something out of the ordinary, thus adding some spice to their wilderness adventure.

The best answer I ever heard to the question was given by the late John Edwards, son of Lonesome Lake pioneer Ralph Edwards.  During the course of operating the Hunlin wilderness camp on Turner Lake for several decades, he had been asked the question countless times.

One particularly memorable July day, John and I had scrambled out onto his dock with the howling west wind driving a  grey, slicing  rain  horizontally through the air; big sleety drops slamming into our faces like rubber bullets.  Freezing cold in lightweight summer jackets, we helped four half swamped, soaked and dispirited canoeists tie up to the log deck, their red lifejackets stained dark where the water spilled off their hats.

Later, in the cabin, with the heater glowing, their clothes steaming, wet hair clinging to their illuminated faces, and  mugs of strong tea balanced on their denim knees, one of the adventurers asked: ” Is this normal for July?”

“What ever it’s doing is normal,” said John  simply. End of story.

Just like this spring, things are simply normal.

Cold, freezing death is only an eighth of an inch away. Yet there they sit, unconcerned, their translucent green leaves arching toward the morning sun, licking at the frost. It is minus 29 this morning, just another sunny March morning in the Precipice.

Rosemary is in full plant mode these days, seedlings sprouting on every available south facing surface. Now it is breakfast with the plants, giving one the feeling of being in the tropics. Well, almost. Until you see the heavy frost on the window and realize there is a 50 degree Celsius differential across the thin little membrane that separates us and the tender young shoots from being flash frozen.

The word window is actually a corruption of the phrase “wind doors” from the time when houses had openings in the walls to let in light but there was no glass, they were just open holes. We have come a long way since then, taking modern glass as a given, not giving second thought to what an amazing material it really is.

No matter, the plants don’t care either, they just do their thing, growing like mad in the burgeoning early spring sunshine, gulping photons and spreading their foliage wings. During the course of the day you can actually see the long slender stems twist as the tops follow the sun, bowing forward, humble supplicants to Amen Ra, the greatest God of all.

By noon, the sun has melted the frost, the morning’s show is just another memory, one of myriad images collected through the seasons here in the ARK

Klaus finally made his decision. He was going to get a Komondor. The new dog would replace his Great Pyrenees, Dia, who had been killed by a buck deer last fall. Choosing the new stock guard dog was the easy part, getting it into the Precipice was another matter all together.

There aren’t many Komondor breeders.  Klaus had found one in Whitehorse who was expecting pups at Christmas, so he ordered one.  When it reached 8 weeks the pup was old enough to be flown to Vancouver where another breeder from Aldergrove had agreed to be the transition point between flights, as the little guy would then be flown to Anahim Lake where we would pick him up and bring him home by snowmachine.

We headed for town Monday morning, riding two skidoos, one for back-up and my larger one to carry the dog crate.   The weather was okay but as we neared the logging road where my truck was parked, the snow and clouds started to roll in, obscuring the mountains surrounding us. The closer we got to Anahim Lake ,the thicker it became but just as we rounded the airport corner the clouds lifted a little, so we were sure things would be fine for the plane to land.  No tower at our Anahim airport!

The administration office is small, so we could hear the pilot talking to the ground crew as she was making her final approach.  Even though we had enough ceiling over the airport, a snow squall just south of the runway obscured visibility below acceptable limits and the pilot radioed she was going to abort the landing attempt and return to Vancouver.

So there we sat, eyeballing the lowering cloudbanks, absorbing the radio chat and the import of the turboprop’s thrum as it bore unseen through the slate grey murk above us, GPS-ing it back to Vancouver.  So near, yet so far.  Even worse, when I called Rosemary she told us that the sun had broken through over the Precipice. In fact, she had seen the plane go over on its way to Anahim.

Oh, well.  Back to the snow machines, a dash back to the Precipice to call Aldergrove, asking the breeder to turn around and go back to the Vancouver South airport, her second trip that day.

Combining the weather predictions and the thrice weekly flight schedule, we decided to wait until Friday, when the conditions were supposed to be cold and clear.   Sure enough, Friday we awoke to minus 25, with a few clouds scudding across the horizon.  Since we didn’t have to leave until 11, I had time for an extra coffee, letting the day warm up a bit.  About 10:30, as I was getting dressed in wool pants, sweaters and toques etc, Klaus roared up on his machine and hurried down to the front door.  He wanted to know why I was 35 minutes late…we were supposed to meet at the bridge, down below our place. He was cold from waiting and also was worried about meeting the plane on time.

It turns out that on our last trip out he had lost his watch on the trail, so Rosemary gave him an extra one we had kicking around.  What we didn’t know and Klaus didn’t realize was that it was set for daylight saving time, making him an hour ahead.  Once we got that sorted out we were on our way, bouncing along on the mogul-filled trail to the truck.

This time the sky was a clear blue, the plane landed smoothly and quickly, taxied up to the apron with the port engine exhaling puffs of blue smoke as it shut down. The pilot opened the hatch and nimbly scampered down the ramp, ducked under the wing and cracked the cargo door.  And there , surrounded by beige, black and blue luggage of all shapes and sizes was puppy, lying in his crate, blinking and yawning, without a care in the world.  With cool aplomb, scanning the new landscape with coal black eyes set in a snowy white face, he looked for all the world like frosty the snowman without the carrot nose.

After a short walk to do his business, puppy was loaded back into his crate and off we went to the trailhead.

We put the crate sideways on the back of my skidoo, then strapped it down with ropes and bungee cords, carefully wrapping it over all with a blanket for warmth and stuffing towels on the inside so puppy wouldn’t be jostled around too much.  As I slowly pulled ahead, Klaus watched to see the reaction from the passenger.  Did he jump and howl?  No way, not this dog. He simply laid down, put his nose between his feet and looked straight ahead.  I guess after four plane flights and several hours in the back of a car in rush hour, he can do snow machines standing on his head.

It was a very slow trip home on the rough trail so puppy was eager to get out of the cage, but do you know the first thing he did? He took off into the deep snow and got stuck trying to chase a cow on the other side of the fence, just his head visible.  No slouch, this pup!  He is going to be a great one.

His new name? Kosmo.  Kosmo the Komondor owned by Klaus , isn’t that Kosmic?

All of a sudden it just happens. You’re going along, head down, making it through February, beginning to wonder why you live in this climate, wondering how many more days you can take of this dull, grey, monotone world of eggshell white snow, charcoal tree trunks, bare dark brown alder branches, short shadowy days and long black nights.

Then it happens. Overnight the winter high pressure arrives with a searing white sun hanging in a sparkling blue sky, shattering the dullness, throwing a brilliant spotlight on gyrating frost crystals doing their whirligig dance in space.

Now you understand why you live here. Sometimes the details cloud the vision, the trees really do get in the way of seeing the forest. Then you climb up onto a ridge, open up the vista, crack the ceiling you have been under and see things anew.

That is what the sun does, it cracks open the mudge of fog and cloud, bringing the larger scene into perspective, reattaching the mind, the spirit and the body to the exotic wilderness that is the Chilcotin Ark.

Our firs danced last night.  Not their usual stately swaying motion, but crazy sinuous writhing hip hop club dancing, snapping their twigs and hurling their cones into the wind.  A night long orgy of energy.

Our  house sits on the snout of an esker which rises 125 feet above the Hotnarko River.  From this vantage point we look across Precipice Valley, over the other rim and into the throat of the Coast Mountains.  The great gyre of the northern Pacific spawns pressure differentials which crash into the mountains with global energy. I’ve seen whirlwinds stir trees like a milkshake, leaving hundreds twisted and torn from the ground in a creaking, cracking roar lasting just a couple of minutes.

Last night you could hear the gusts coming for several seconds before they hit;  our normally implacable house shook and the feeling of sheer force was palpable.  When I went outside to get into the frame, I was reminded of the line from The Highwayman “The moon was a ghostly galleon..”  That’s what it was like, only much worse. The clouds were ripping by so fast that the moon was in stacatto mode, giving a flashdance performance.

But the firs!  Whipping from side to side, their branch ends were part of the maelstrom,  needle-cloaked fingers snapping time to the primal beat of the elements.  Dark brown cones were hurled sideways, bouncing off the walls and windows, cracking and banging into the night.  Small branches tumbled through the air, rising higher and higher until they finally disappeared into the darkness beyond

The storm blew itself out in the small dark hours before dawn, and we awoke to a still and calm morning, so benign in its denial of the violence of last night’s escapade.  Such is life on the Ridge of the Dancing Firs, frenzy one minute and calm the next.

It was just after 4 on a  -25 degree C afternoon. I had  come in from outside, taken my boots off and put my feet up on the stool, warming myself by the heater when the phone rang.

“Have you got a hammer and a sharp knife?” said the hurried voice on the other end of the line.  “Well… yesssss,” I replied.  “Good, then I come right over and you can cut my finger off”.  Click, the phone went dead and I stared at it for a long moment, letting all this sink in.

The call had come from my neighbour,Klaus,  who runs the ranch in our valley.  Although he usually is a man of few words, this conversation set a new benchmark for brevity.

I put my boots and jacket back on and went outside to wait anxiously for his arrival, while Rosemary collected first aid materials and prepared for the worst.  Within five minutes I could hear the whine of his snomachine.   Up the hill and into the driveway he came, stiff backed and glassy eyed.  With no coat, shirttail streaming behind, his full beard frosty white and hair straight back he looked more like a wraith than my neighbour.  Somehow he had managed to work the throttle and steer the machine with his right hand even though it was wrapped in a big glob of blood-soaked paper towels.

I led him into the kitchen where Rosemary unwrapped the paper towels to expose what used to be a finger, but now was a piece of white bone with ragged pieces of flesh hanging to the side from the middle knuckle to the end.  The nail was  still attached but at a weird angle, the whole finger curled in the fetal position.

“Whiskey ,” breathed Kklaus.  He slugged it back. “Cut it off” , he demanded.

We figured he was in shock.  “No way, ” I said.

Rosemary dressed the finger in gauze and bandages and called the about-to-close clinic to see if someone would wait there, while I went outside, fired up our snow machine and got it ready for the trip to Anahim Lake.  By the time I  got back, Rosemary had dressed our Klaus in some of my heavy snow machine gear complete with down coveralls and jacket,  extra large mitts to accommodate the bandage, and her warm blue toque.  Klaus is  many pounds and several sizes smaller than me so he looked for all the world like a little kid dressed up in his dad’s clothes, although the humour didn’t surface at the time.

The trail was  rough and bumpy  but he stoically hung on.  Forty-five minutes later we were at the car, which is parked at the end of the logging road, in the turnaround where they stop ploughing.   After a nervous few minutes while the car decided if it would start in this cold weather, we drove another twenty five minutes to the clinic in Anahim Lake where the nurse took one look at the blood soaked bandages and after hearing the description of the finger/router encounter said “You guys have to go to Williams Lake.”

It was now after 7pm.  The finger had been mangled 3 over hours ago, but my Klaus still insisted he didn’t need any pain killers.   So, after a coffee at Mort’s place, off to Williams Lake we went.

After three hours and forty five minutes of icy driving on  dark deserted Highway 20,  we were in emergency, the doctor shaking his head and trying to provide options.  All this took a few more hours, and we were both exhausted.

After the trip and the trauma, it was not the time to make a decision so we went to a helpful friend’s home for the night.  It wasn’t much of a night.  We arrived just after one am and left at six thirty, so we could be back to emergency before the doctor’s shift ended at eight am.  By then, my oh-so-practical neighbour had made the final decision: to have the top half of his index finger amputated. Since he is right-handed, the decision was not easy.  But with the spectre of numerous trips to Kamloops or Vancouver for the surgery, to see a plastic surgeon, rehab, and no guarantee that the finger would ever be really useful again, removal seemed the best solution.

It was quickly accomplished and we were back in the car by ten thirty, grabbed a drive-through lunch, and then drove the endless four hours to the snomachine and then another 45 minutes back into the Precipice.  And finally, pain pills were accepted.   Talk about a high pain tolerance!  But the day wasn’t over yet; the cows needed to be fed; huge round bales of hay to be delivered by tractor.  Klaus  insisted he drive the tractor while I cut the strings, kept stuck bales rolling and acted as gateman/ cattle shooer.

Once that was done, we went back up to our place, a couple of kilometers away,  for the good hot meal Rosemary had waiting and a debrief.

And so it goes, one of those little things that can happen when you’re running power tools.  Traumatic anywhere, just much more complicated here in the wilderness.
In any case, the next time someone phones you and opens with “Do you have a hammer?”, be prepared….

Dave.

We all watched it. President Obama’s acceptance speech was remarkable on many levels, with his flawless delivery from memory to the huge number of topics covered.

More than anything though, I am impressed with the way he threw the challenge to the American people, and by extension, to Canadians as well. The challenge is to “pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off” and become reinvolved in making this world a better place.

A few minutes here, a few minutes there, it doesn’t take much to be part of the action. Maybe a donation to a charity, maybe one more day a month volunteering, little things done by millions of people add up to a big action.

Especially in the dead of winter, when the days are short and the mood is solemn, it is difficult to get the positive juices flowing. Here in the Precipice we are rather limited by deep snow, cold weather and the daily routines of keeping the fire going, the house running and the myriad little things needed to keep a wilderness lifestyle viable.

But, I’m an old hippy at heart, one who has the eternal belief that we can make changes, one who still believes that underneath all the overburden, we are simply just people trying to make the best of who and what we are.

That is why President Obama’s message is so clear. The world has shifted, it is time to move beyond the old worldviews, the old politics of power and oppression, time to move into a new co-operation, not just here but world wide, bridging cultures, religions and races.

It won’t happen overnight and it won’t happen easily. There are still many, especially of my generation, who feel that the old ways are best and will continue to move as if nothing is changing. Alas, these actions will cause conflict and grief, but like a thunderstorm that is passing, the lightening bolts will be fewer, the damage will lessen and the clouds will move away.

We only have one home, one tiny speck of warmth in the vastness of the cosmos. As a species this is our time to mature into co-operation. To keep alive the adolescent, tribal internecine rivalries which kill and maim will only lessen the chance that we will be here for generations to come.

Perilous times need great leaders, and I think President Obama is the man of this time. I hope we all get behind the vision and the spirit. I will do my little bit here in the wilderness and I trust you will do the same in your own special part of the world, wherever that may be.

Dave.

The longer the time away the more difficult it is to get home again; especially from a place  like New Zealand. Endlessly varied  beaches, volcanoes, hot springs, impossibly turquoise lakes, the magnificent southern alps, pastoral landscapes, friendly people; every day a new day as we puttered down the road in our feisty little camper van, cozy, contained and contented.

Beyond this, I can’t begin to convey the experience of the last couple of months in any meaningful way with a few short sentences.  Suffice it to say that New Zealand with  all its special nooks and crannies cloaked in chorus after chorus of exotic bird song is a wonderful place to visit

A different reality is so easy to settle into.  New routines soon become habits, new scenes become the expectation of the day, the constant shift of landscape and energy becomes the norm.  That is why there is a jolt when reentry happens.  The free fall of open space  changes into the gravity of regular existence.

So here we are back in the Precipice, lots of snow on the ground, a Townsend’s Solitaire gobbling juniper berries outside my window.  The snow machine greased, oiled and ready to go, the wood heater is blasting out the heat and I’m on my second cup of coffee, trying to figure out where to go from here.

In the meantime here are a few pics…..

Dave