wordless wednesday...

[not so] wordless wednesday...

A pair of American robins have tucked in and made themselves a home on the roof of our deck, where it is overlapped with the roof overhang from the house, and thus quite well protected. The deck roof is really just corrugated plastic sheeting, which is why I easily spotted the nest from below. I feel a bit guilty each time I venture out onto the deck now, as it seems no matter how quiet I step I am sure to flush one of them from the nest. If I am quiet enough though, and wait patiently, they will come back. I can't wait till there are little chirplings, and maybe if I am lucky they will drop a few shell pieces down to me below.

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>>> for Michele who asked, Ty is a pitbull mix. For those who don't know, "pitbull" is not actually a breed, but gets used as a lump term for several breeds (Staffordshire Bull Terrier, American Staffordshire Terrier, American Pitbull Terrier) and other dogs with that "bully" look. I'm only clarifying because I think the mass description is often unfair, and poorly informed (many people will identify a dog as a pitbull when it is not - test yourself with this quiz), which leads to breed stereotyping. In Ty's case, he is a mutt of undetermined breeds, although we did rescue him from an organization that specifically works to find home for "pitbulls" who generally have the lowest rates of adoption in regular shelters.

feels like summer...

I keep rechecking the calendar date. Surely it can't be only the beginning of May. For days now the temps have been reaching into the high 20s (C), and the blue sky stretches unbroken to the mountains on either side. It feels like summer, well and truly, and there's little choice to make but to enjoy it fully, as one never knows when it will change again.

Last night, in the twilight, Ty and I slipped out the door for a walk. The streets were mostly quiet - a few folks digging in their gardens here and there, sprinklers watering lawns as we passed. We followed the path off the pavement and onto dirt under a fresh unfurled canopy of leaves. The songbirds were sounding their sunset chorus, with the occasional alarm noting our passage. The creek trickled quietly underneath us as we ambled over the bridge. Down at the beach, lilting voices carried across the water from a pair of kayakers gliding serenely in the bay. We paused for a breath, a quiet contemplation, and to enjoy the view.

Then we were back amongst the trees, following the winding path as the light continued to fade. I noted again the birds, those trumpeting out an alarm about this woman and her dog, and those singing in the night. But I was only half listening. And then I realized I should be listening fully, and embracing what the robins know and can share with me. I turned my comments and commands to Ty down to a whisper, and quieted my footfalls on the trail. We descended back to the creek, and stopped so he could have a drink of water beside the bridge. I thought for a moment I heard something splash out of the water as we approached, but then I doubted myself as I watched the tiniest waterfall gurgle repeatedly with the same sound.

Up ahead, the songbirds were alarming in a group, too far off to be a comment about us yet. I was pretty sure what that ruckus was for. As we got closer I started scanning amongst all the branches, trying to isolate the centre in growing darkness. There! A larger bird, adjusting its feathers high on a Douglas fir branch, just barely silhouetted against the forest background. Unmistakably an owl. I looked down for a moment and it was gone, but then found again on a tree on the other side of the creek. I smiled, and Ty stood there, oblivious to the action above his head. I had already been planning to return to the woods near our old house in the next few weeks, in hopes of re-acquainting myself with the barred owl pair from last year. But to know there is at least one owl in the wooded area near our new place makes me excited to do a bit more exploring here as well, perhaps earlier in the evening with big camera in hand. I'll keep you posted.

We climbed the stairs back out of the woods, pausing to note a deer crunching through the dead leaves on the other side of the creek. The heat was more noticeable back out on the street, free from the cooling effect of the forest canopy. We were both thinking about a drink and I kept the rest of the loop short. In the open park past the tennis courts two does watched us and Ty created a bit of a fuss in his apparent growing fascination for deer, much to my dismay. But soon enough we were back in our own driveway, and then he was fast asleep on the couch as we settled in for the night.

in bloom...

It starts small, literally. Still stomping the trails in hardy boots, head and hands wrapped up against the biting wind, you start to notice small green shoots unfurling amongst the mud and last year's dead leaves. It starts slow too, and can't help but anxiously await the first little flower buds. Then one day they are there - small snowdrops in clusters out in the woods and on lawns, bowing under the still cold breeze on grey March days. The first bright yellow glow of swamp lanterns thrusting up from the boggy areas lights up the woods. And you know - spring has well and truly started.

Suddenly it's everywhere - vibrant green nubs on each branch, pink salmonberry stars, a carpet of green on the forest floor followed by trilliums, fawn lilies, bleeding hearts. Each yard including yours boasts a clutch or two of daffodils and tiny grape hyacinths. The magnolias, unable to hold themselves back any longer, unleash an explosion of petals. The streets are lined with cherry trees littering blossoms that swirl and dance in the breeze of each passing car. You find yourself walking the trails in sandals and a light sweater, hands and face open to the sun. Everywhere the birds are singing and flirting, even more thrilled than you about this change in the weather. Spring has sprung.

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After a small string of glorious days, the rain moved back in today and the world feels a bit grey. It's milder though, without the determined chill of a winter day. A few things going on on the interwebs:
>> A recipe of mine made it into the new Hollyhock cookbook. Even without that bit of luck, I would totally recommend this book for healthy, seasonal recipes. I just made the whole wheat chia bread and it's awesome!
>> The weather might be warming up, but a squishy cowl like this makes me wish for a few more chilly days.
>> Once those lovely daffodils start to fade on the front lawn, I think I'll gather up the wilting petals to make a dye bath and if I'm lucky I'll get buttery yellows like these from Clarabella.

How's your week?

between the downpours...

Each time I passed the the kitchen window in my wanders through the house, what I already knew was confirmed by a quick glance at the puddle where the driveway meets the street: it was raining. Not just a few drops here and there, but a steady drumbeat keeping the muddy pool topped up. From the couch I can see it coming down like a sheet. Argh.

And then suddenly, after the rain seems at its heaviest, there is a lull. I go to the window to make sure, and the driveway puddle is curiously still. I wait, poking my head out the door and pacing back and forth. It seems to be holding, at least for the next few minutes, and I decide to take my chances. Layered up with a gore-tex topper and my trusty bean boots, I grab my camera bag and head straight for the beach. This pause in the rain has coincided nicely with the low tide, and the shore stretches out before me under a grey sky. The driftwood over small rocks at the high tide line moves into larger boulders covered in barnacles and slime, and finally sand spreads out just at the waterline. I amble between the rocky pools and sand, looking for critters and things left behind. Every once in awhile I pause to scan the horizon and the hillside, noting a few eagles perched high in the trees and the sheets of rain still moving out across the water. A sprinkling of drops finds me every now and again, but a real downpour holds off, for the moment.

I have spotted a starfish or two clutching a rock, waiting for the water to return, but then suddenly I'm out on a larger expanse of sand and they're everywhere. Piled together in large clumps, the ochre stars have decided space is overrated and are waiting out the low tide with a crowd of friends. The whelks are everywhere too, and seem to be embracing spring already, having laid little eggs that now cling to rocks and abandoned clam shells. Occasionally there is a bright orange whelk, a sunspot shining bright in this grey day, grey landscape. I look but so far there are no signs of herring eggs washing ashore, clinging to every bit of seaweed. No signs of sea lions feasting on the eggs and herring off shore either. Soon, perhaps within a few a days. The fishing great blue heron will have none of me today, flying off when I am still far away.

When I can deny the call of 'real life' no longer, I amble back to the truck along the high tide line. On my way home I stop to pick the first batch of stinging nettles for the season. As I make my way down the dirt path I wryly watch a young couple, the woman's belly swelling, head out to the beach with a photographer for a maternity shoot, just a little needles of hail start coming down. I tuck my head down and pick a dinner's worth of the tender but prickly shoots, then get back to the truck before I'm fully soaked. The grey days are still here, but if you look closely around the edges, in the tiny greens that are poking up through the muddy earth, spring is on its way. But it takes a lot of rain to get there.

gold morning...

These are the grey days, the gloomy days. November is just that way around here, mostly. So when a weekend morning dawns crisp and clear, it's worth it to crawl from under the cozy covers in the early light and step out into the frosty air. Layers of wool as usual guard me from the chill, but fingers and nose turn rosy. In the twilight of the park deer graze, and a doe stamps her feet at me, but my eyes are drawn to the hot glow through the bare trees. I could have been a few minutes earlier, to get the full effect, but the red ball rising from the horizon blows me away all the same. A fiery orb coming out above the low cloud bank, lighting up the eastern sky with a warm light that defies the frosty nipping my cheeks. Gorgeous.

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I wanted to make this post a little longer, but a mystery recurring allergic reaction that today has flared into a full itchy face rash is keeping me a little distracted. Argh. How does a robust, allergy-free (albeit accident-prone) child who became an adult that avoids harsh chemicals and processed foods, also become someone with a growing list of obscure allergies and sensitivities? My body seems to always be betraying me in one way or another these days. Instead, let me attempt to entertain you with others' loveliness:

>> Have you seen these fantastic ornaments from otchipotchi? The little package I ordered arrived today and they are even prettier in person. Almost puts a girl in the holiday mood...
>> There is a food truck in Tofino that makes amazing chocolate diablo cookies - spiced up with cayenne and ginger. I just discovered the recipe online so now I can make them at home!
>> This embroidered denim jumper makes me want to decorate all of my clothes.

storm...

Last week I was exhausted, having worked much of the previous weekend too. A cold was tickling at the edges and then overtook me, and I couldn't wait for Friday to roll around. I made great claims on social media that the stormy forecast meant I would be happily curled up on the couch for the duration, guilt free. But I guess when it comes down to it, I'm not that kind of girl.

Turns out I'm the kind of girl to head out into the wild just before the storm reaches its full strength. The kind of girl to go stalking tree to tree to sneak up on the deer laying out in the open field, where they bed down on windy days when the trees swoosh and shudder and muffle all other noise, so that no one can sneak up on them, in fact. Out in the open, the newest big buck on the block watched me steadily but still let me creep in close as he tucked his hooves underneath him but stayed bedded down. His second in command lay nearby, and a scattering of does and fawns dotted the grass, while a few more only revealed themselves as my eyes adjusted to the shadows under the nearby bushes. A flick of movement and a large pileated woodpecker works its way up one of the trees edging the field. The wind was a howl around us, fading leaves rattling as with their last gasp they clung to the weather-beaten trees.

Turns out I'm the kind of girl to walk into the gusts of the southeaster along the shore of the bay. Watch the clouds race across the sky and block out the mountain peaks for yet another day. Purposeful waves wash in to the beach even on this 'protected' stretch, and I know there is a snarl of water waiting on the other side of the spit. My spirit races from the energy of it all, even as my head tucks low from the cold wind that find my ears through my thick wool toque. I turned back into the woods, boots crunching through swirling leaves on the path as thick trunks creaked overhead.

Turns out I'm the kind of girl to linger, even has the sky turns abruptly black at two in the afternoon, as the squall becomes a bit more determined and the raindrops a bit closer together. Okay, a lot closer together.  A last detour to spend a few fleeting moments with the hooved dancers again, maybe catch a glimpse of that eight-point buck spotted the day before. But even the deer have moved under cover in this weather, and I stand with a few stragglers nuzzling for acorns under the carpet of leaves. With a last big inhale of the wild air I head home in the rain, finding the couch finally.

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So, it's November then, and the clocks have changed. This morning was greeted with bright sunshine, but I know the workday will end in darkness. Weekday after work walks are suddenly a dying breed around here. While I look toward the next weekend, maybe the increase in inside time will be good on the crafting front. This year feels like a big wash on that front (actually on a lot of fronts...). Since the forced hiatus following my injury at the very start of the year, despite fits and starts I feel like I've never really found my stride again. My inspiration has fled into other activities. How do you find your crafting inspiration? And for that matter, how do you get your fresh air quota when balancing life and work in the dark days of winter?

wordless(ish) wednesday...

Wishing you a little magic on this all hallows eve...it's always there if you keep your eyes open.

bear country...

"Jen!" The word came out in a terse gust of air, my breath and my feet caught short as I stopped dead in my tracks. She pulled back too, but took a second to identify the cause of my concern. After that one word burst, my voice failed me and I could only stand frozen. Steps below the trail, belly deep in a lazy section of river, stood a black bear fishing for salmon. He didn't look up at first, and we backed slowly away, our eyes glued to the big beast. But, nature nerds that the two of us are, we didn't get too far away before our cameras came out, trained on the black hulk wading through the current. After a few moments of river recon, the bear abruptly climbed up the bank and started toward us on the trail.

Backing up a little...a couple hours earlier we had been bushwhacking through wet young hemlocks and brush just off the highway some ways north of town, getting soaked and hunting for chanterelles. The thick young evergreens hid even our feet as we navigated the hillside, but when we stopped and tucked below the branches, golden 'shrooms revealed themselves through the mossy duff. We were soaked as we emerged again onto the overgrown logging road, but each of the five of us carried a bag full of forest treasure ready for dinner. I eyed my extra prize - a giant, moss-covered vertebra from an elk, after discovering its skeleton remains on the forest floor - likely discarded some time ago after a hunter took the meat and head. We returned to town satisfied, and after dropping off the other women I asked my friend (she who takes me to see many wild beasts) if she was up for a walk along a favoured salmon river. Gamely, we drove to the trailhead. After surveying the crowd of cars in the parking lot, she deemed it unlikely we'd see any bears today, and we set to walking through the carpet of maple leaves along the water's edge. But that confident assertion proved untrue...

Boots feeling slick in the mud, we backed up again until we rounded a bend in the trail, hidden from view. After a breathless pause, a curious black face poked around the next bend. He didn't seem aggressive, but he showed no fear either, and we tucked back out of view and moved back again to the next bend. We wished out loud that he would return to the river and we might be able to sneak past, feeling our walk was being cut unduly short otherwise. We could have tried to scare him off, but didn't want to disturb him if we didn't have to. Jen had already stopped an off-leash pup in its tracks and directed it and its owner back in the opposite direction, but we were a bit more stubborn. Again the bear appeared around the corner we had just left, watching us, coming along steadily. We retreated one more time. All was quiet but for the gurgles of the river. I saw a black shape appear around the bend, but just as quickly it tucked down into the brush along the river's edge. We waited. Then Jen started forward with a stick in hand, a frail looking thing not more than a couple feet long, less than an inch in diameter. I wasn't sure what she planned to do, exactly, with that sad little weapon, but I quickly followed behind.

But that massive black bear had disappeared, vanished into the dwindling leaves along the river's edge and nowhere to be seen. We continued on up the trail, ears perked to any sound, hearts still pumping with adrenaline. Nothing but the river's rushing journey, although the signs of recent bear activity (*ahem*) were frequent on the path.

On the way back down, we peered out from a little overlook above the river. A rustle in the bushes on the opposite shore alerted us to another beast clambering along. He emerged, unconcerned with us but in tune with every splash of the active salmon swimming upstream. We felt much more relaxed as he ambled along, a deep section of water separating us this time. We spoke in whispers as he tested the water, gnawed on a rotten fish found on the river bed. He continued on up the shore and we continued on our journey back to the truck, wide eyed and invigorated by our close brush with the wild out in the crisp October air.

through the woods, to the beach...

Out of the car and up the stairs. Like a kid out of school and eager to go play, I'm inside just long enough to don my boots and some woolen layers. With camera and gathering bag slung over my shoulder, I grab a handful of chocolate chips and I'm out the door again. The air is crisp with a mostly blue sky overhead, and the smell of wood smoke is in the air. A few blocks through quiet streets and then I'm tucked under the canopy of the trees, heading downhill on dirt into the woods. The last rays of sun light up the fallen leaves like bits of stained glass on the dark path underfoot. The creek gurgles, renewed with all the recent rain. Down across the bridge and I see the huge maple, a canopy of yellow leaves just a few days ago, nearly bare now as a storm or two has come through. A bit farther along and I am out of the woods again, out in the grasses above the bay. The light is warm, golden as it comes across the blades, reflects off the turning leaves of the trees that border this open space. The sky itself is full of drama, grey-blue clouds with a blaze of sun, a hint of rain over closer to town.

I am caught up, entranced. Clambering over old driftwood I shoot photo after photo, trying to capture that light before it slips away. The high pitched whistle of eagles come lilting through the air, and I spot a small crew in the tops of the trees. Out in the bay a paddling of ducks sets off in squawking half-flight, upset by some unseen disturbance, only to settle into their float again a few moments later just a little farther off.

I am busy behind the camera, but all too soon the sun is fading, slipping behind the hills. I know if I wait much longer I will be walking back through the woods in the dark. A few more snaps and I reluctantly pull away, slipping back beneath the trees. I make a quick stop at the deer skeleton, checking the decaying process beneath the leaves, assured that no one else has found it. Then it's back along the winding pathways through the tall firs, eyes and ears alert as always. Over another bridge and steady back up the hill to the street. In minutes I'm climbing up the front stairs again, cheeks red and nose cold, but heart full. Time to make up a big pot of chili, to warm the bones on this cold autumn night.

October, 'tis...

I wish you could walk with me, through the woods. See how the ground has soaked up the new rain, how the moss has turned green again overnight. With the rain comes its companion the wind, and I can hear the swoosh of the southeasterly gust moving through the tree tops. But down here on the trail it's calm, quiet but for the rustle underfoot and the steady croak of little tree frogs.

Birds of all sizes are busy these days, from the wee winter wren in the underbrush with its "chip, CHIP CHIP!" to the plaintive calls of the northern flickers in the forest canopy. Winter's breath is just around the corner, and each day the woods change as they prepare. The forest floor is becoming carpeted with maple leaves, and if you listen quietly you can hear the plink plunk plink as a soggy yellow leaf makes its way through the branches to fall to earth.

I walk quietly, sturdy boots taking soft steps on the dirt paths. My pace is slow but steady, owl eyes darting constantly to try and see everything, deer ears straining for every sound. And then there, on the path, is a deer, although it takes me a moment to match the shape with memory. This deer is twisted, decaying, bones poking out through sodden fur and a macabre grin below empty eye sockets. I contemplate it, saddened but fascinated, and pondering whether I can salvage some of those bones. I will leave it a bit, but there might be some treasure there, a form of reverence for a once majestic creature. There are bits and pieces at every turn, if one is looking - laurel berries to dye with, chicken-of-the-woods mushrooms for eating, fallen leaves to admire. It's all a form of reverence, really.

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I might be absent from here for a bit. I need to do some thinking. I will probably still be posting things over on flickr and anything new for the shop will be posted on facebook too. Hope your Sunday is going well.

seaweed...

Last week i had the opportunity to go to a talk with 'the seaweed lady', Diane Bernard. Diane runs a company called SeaFlora, where she hand harvests seaweed along the southwest coast of Vancouver Island, and uses it to make high end organic skincare products that are used in spas around the world. Normally she does talks at the beach, right in the thick of it, but low tide was at 6am and we had a bit shorter time for it too. I was disappointed, but oh well - learning about these plants was fascinating nonetheless. She brought a big pile of seaweeds that she had harvested earlier that morning and passed them out so we could touch and play. There is such variety along this coast, from the massive bull kelp, the fastest growing organism in the world, to thin clumps of sea lettuce. You can click on the images for a bit more info, although I can't remember the names of all of them. I need to get a good reference book. Most of them are edible, and they are full of minerals that can improve your health whether you eat them or put them directly on your skin.

I was inspired to try and add more seaweeds to my diet, and started this evening when I picked some sea lettuce on my walk. I added it to leftover spot prawns (thanks Mom!) tossed with some mushrooms and pasta. Yum.

We're in our new house, but there's lots of work to do yet. AK has gone out for his last guiding trip of the year (lucky him - back to where the humpbacks are still hanging out) so I'm tackling the boxes by myself so far. This house definitely has different dimensions from the old one, and furniture arrangement is going to take some creativity. But we'll make it work. Now if I could just find my stitching...

shift...

Today's walk confirmed it. Despite what the calendar says, autumn has arrived. A few good, albeit short, soakings of rain and the air has changed. There is a crisp wind coming down off the hills, rattling its way along the dry maples along the river's edge and swirling yellow leaves into eddies. The snails are revelling in the moisture of drenched moss and climbing out to the tips of the sword ferns. The mushrooms haven't had much of  chance to poke through, but a large velvety polypore waited for me alongside the trail. I believe it's a dyer's polypore, and the portion that I brought home is currently creating a yellow dye liquid.

The little cottontails flashed their white tails and hid in the thicket, and the peah of a flicker and the coarse mewwww of towhees noted my passage back to the truck. We are sure to have a few warm afternoons yet, but there's no denying it. In the fading light of a storm and sun day, fall is here.

nootka part two...

this is a continuation from yesterday's post.

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I awoke in the twilight before dawn to the shriek of eagles high in the trees. A moment later I heard the telltale blows of a whale in the bay and pulled myself from the last remnants of sleep to go investigate. But the whale disappeared around the point as I stepped out on the rocks, leaving me to admire the pink glow lighting the peaks of Nootka Island in the distance. I sat on the ragged shore and watched the tide creep slowly in, listening to then constant patter of mackerel jumping, then went back to the tent in time to hear AK's 7:30 alarm sound. After a simple breakfast we packed up and got on the water.

Almost immediately we spotted a blow ahead; this humpback slipped quietly between us and the shore. Around another point and the wind was picking up from the west, coming straight at us. We wound through the channels, reassessing our plans but continuing forward for now. Another whale popped up ahead, in a narrow channel between two islands. We clung close to the larger one, hoping not to get in his way. He emerged for a few breaths, tucked up against the opposite islet, then came up in a froth to feed. Our paddles were still in our hands, eyes spellbound.

We paddled out around the isthmus of Bligh Island, mostly protected but feeling a bit of the quickening wind. Our goal for the day had been Burdwood Bay, a wide stretch of sand across from Friendly Cove, requiring a larger crossing exposed to the open ocean. Nootka Sound is a winding labyrinth of islands offering sheltered spots to explore, but the rugged coastline is also regular host to wild storms, where waves explode off rocks to touch the treetops high above. We moved along our channel until we could get a view between two islands. At the same time we listened to the marine forecast on the VHF. Gale warning, said the monotone voice over the airwaves. Hmmm...

After a bit of exploring, slipping through the shallows between islets where sea stars and oysters carpeted the seafloor, we headed back to the isthmus to set up camp. A sea otter popped up to spend a few moments with us, calmly floating away on its back. We set up camp on a flat spot at the edge of the forest, including a communal tarp for cooking and sitting under as the rain set in.

Throughout the afternoon brief squalls moved through, pounding rain and stirring up the sea, only to leave it flat calm moments later. We continued to spot whale spouts on both sides of the isthmus, but the real show set up in our little bay. Just like the humpbacks, California sea lions were busy in the sound, gorging on mackerel. Our bay was teaming with them, and a motley crew of sea lions was corralling dinner (and snacks, and more dessert, and...). While much of the action took place below, the beasts would chase the schools of mackerel until the fish would swell at the surface, even jumping clear of the water in their efforts to avoid those grizzly-like jaws (see video above). Over and over this was repeated as the night crept on, the shhhhhhhhh of the disturbed sea surface lulling our ears as we watched. Even as we crawled into our sleeping bags the feast continued, and the raucous chorus of sea lion barks crept into our dreams.

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there are new mushrooms and a coyote in the shop.