COUNTRY VETS AND TUNNEL VISION

Last night we experienced our Precipice version of tunnel vision.

We don’t leave the Precipice very often in the winter but Chilko, our Maremma/Shepherd cross 100 pound “Puppy Dog” or “Mooch the Pooch” as he is usually called, needed to be seen by the Vet.

Fortunately there is a traveling veterinarian who comes through the country  once or twice a year, so when we heard that Carolyn  was passing through this week, we made several phone calls and arranged to meet her at a friend’s place in Anahim Lake while she was on her way back to Williams Lake from the Bella Coola valley.

She phoned us when she left Hagensborg and we started out at the same time, all of us arriving  at our friend’s house  a few hours later.  This was just another routine logistics issue like several we deal with year round; you just don’t “drop into” a Vet clinic out here.

We also took our neighbour Klaus and his 11 month old Komondor, (another 100 pound “puppy”) with us so the puppy could get his rabies shot.  On top of that, our friend in Anahim has three dogs: a black and white female Pit bull and two brown/white streaked miniature Shiatsu cross something or other who are smaller than his two cats. One of the something or others needed minor attention as did Louise, his aging Marmalade cat, so  Carolyn and her assistant Carey had lots to do.

They set up shop in the kitchen, spread out the implements and started the examinations.  It was really quite a scene, with five excited dogs milling around while Louise and a smoke grey Persian named “Elvis” presided, perched on the arms of a big old black leather chair.

Tests done, samples taken, needles administered, ointments applied and advice given, the team packed up the mobile clinic, loaded it into a big red mud splattered 4X4, and headed off to Tatla Lake,  where they would  spend the night and minister to more patients the next day.

It was on our way home to the Precipice, in the palpable darkness of a socked-in west Chilcotin November night that we experienced our marvellous, special brand of tunnel vision.  As we entered the snow-covered, tree-lined passage that is the second half of our unploughed, ungraded 36 kilometer long driveway, ice crystals did a twinkly dance in the headlights, an early Christmas present.

It was an ethereal trip, gliding through the darkness in this winding tunnel, our vehicle becoming a spaceship exploring an alien ice world on the fringes of the milky way.

Rain, heavy gray rain, coastal rain, falling through the milky fog rain, splattering on the dull lime yellow of dead willow leaves, bouncing high in the puddles.  Rain, thick and heavy, beating on the tin roof with a vengeance, bang, bang, bang..

This is not a vignette from some sodden West Coast cove, where the tide runs free and the foaming green rollers collide with misty headlands, booming far into the night. No, this scene takes place on the so-called rain shadow side of the Coast Mountains.  This end of the Ark is described as arid;  it is classified as a high, dry, cold climate–a Montane desert, according to those who know such things.  It is supposed to have about ten inches of rainfall a year, primarily coming as snow.

Well, we got some of that snow Wednesday night, about 4 inches.  But then came the rain, rain and more rain, the handiwork of this years’ El Nino, spreading its influence far inland.

We live on a hinge line between the weather generated by the Pacific Ocean and the continental expanse.  It is a tug of war.  Sometimes the massive interior high pushes far to the west, invading the coast, providing us with day after day of clear blue sky.

Other times the pushy ocean sends its wet armies into the interior, giving us a taste of rainforest living.

This coastal invasion has been happening a lot more lately as the ocean warms, causing the primal energy pattern in the system to shift, invading further inland.

So here we sit, with a few little snow patches bravely holding guard as the deluge continues, their fate sealed in the warmth of the ocean’s latest inland foray.

But after all, today is Hallowe’en, the time when ghosties and ghoulies emerge from vugular entombment to dance freely across the land. So maybe it is to be expected that the ghosts, formed millions of years ago when this land was the bottom of the ocean, should choose this time to come as pelting emissaries to remind it of its watery past.

Every Precipice Valley Fall has a special twist to it, something to remind us of the infinite complexity created by the great engines of GAIA we are immersed in.  This year it was the powerful weather machine of the Coast Mountains fueled by the western Pacific Ocean that is giving us a new look into the world around us.

New perspectives are part of life here in the western ARK.  They coalesce out of a seemingly endless chain of shifting variables, like patterns in a kaleidoscope.

So it is this year.  A new perspective.  Surprisingly, the leaves have not yet left our giant cottonwoods.  In fact, they have barely started to turn gold, retaining a lot of their green hues.  This is a little unusual; usually by mid October most of the leaves have fallen, weaving a yellow gold blanket that spreads on the forest floor and leaves the naked, gnarled branches to sway in the roiling winds of autumn.

But not this year.  The trees seem to think it is still late September.  They’re holding on to their leaves, continuing their rustling conversation late into the season.  But the great weather machine is not fooled.  It knows what time of year it is.  Using one of its basic programs to mix El Nino conditions with extreme low pressure and a sixty mile wide belt of age-hardened mountains as a crucible, the great weather engine dumped four inches of snow into the Precipice yesterday.

Not a lot for sure, just a little kiss on the cheek, a reminder of the winter dances and the energetic romance about to start, but enough to radically change perspectives.

The trees look so out of place today, debutantes wearing lacy green gowns, stranded on a bare dance floor, their feet covered in snow.

A new perspective.

It’s that time of year again; hardhats must be worn around the workshop, a light wool vest goes on over the shirt, the sun takes a little longer to climb over the ridge, the mists falling in from the mountains take longer to reveal the blue sky above and the burnt gold leaves on the Aspens are beginning to flutter groundward, silent messengers, flagging the slow transition from fall to winter.

The swallows are long gone, so are the hummingbirds, the grey jays are back along with the nuthatches and the usual ragtag assortment of chickadees, settling in for the duration. The wood shed is full, (better than money in the bank), soon the last big wind will blow, soon the heater will be on every day, soon the last cottonwood leaf will drop from the highest branch, soon we will see our breath in the midmorning air.

It all came so fast is year, it seems like it was just yesterday that the swallows were swooping and diving in the clear blue vault of the morning sky, it seems that only last evening we were sitting out on the back deck, listening to the furious frenzy of a dozen Rufus hummers competing for the plastic flowers filled with sugar nectar, carefully prepared on the gas stove.

All this seems like a mere second ago. Where does the time go? I suspect there is a time thief at work, a mysterious coalescence of energies that sucks time away into the black hole of memory, into the never never dream time that only exists in the outback.

No matter, as in all things, there is a bittersweet tang in the taste of life, in the taste of transition, in the inexorable slide into the future.

As for the hardhat? Squirrel is very busy throwing cones from the tops of the pines and firs, he has no particular aim, he simply cuts ‘em loose and they fall like stones. Bang! Bang! Hitting the red tin roof of the workshop with such force, the small explosions splitting the still morning air. Unless you are just making a quick dash to get under the roof, a hard hat is the order of the day.

From hardhats to empty nests to returning winter friends, this is the rhythm of autumn, the solid, eternal march of the soul in the wilderness.

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.