fifth world arts

RIVERS OF GOLD: chapter one

Tales from the Hermitage

Photograph by starchy                                            all rights reserved 

Caught in shafts of sunlight, diamond beads of water arched off my glistening fly line. Helpless and compliant as a caboose on a train, the fly traveled back and forth in long lazy loops over the stream. With a quick flick of the wrist, I directed the fast floating line up and across the babbling creek. The lure landed softly and submerged in the fast current, just off the far bank. Instantly the snaking line began to straighten, about two meters above where I sensed a fish was lurking. 

A disapproving kingfisher lectured me from high in his leafy pulpit, the sermon went on and on, in scolding tones of condemnation.  Ignoring his tirade, I fell back in tune with my fly, that at this moment was floating enticingly under the nose of a plump rainbow trout. 

KILLER WHALES AND PUPPY DOG TAILS

There be whales

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“Look mommy, an Orca!” yelled a small child pointing toward the Oceanside beach. Laughing to myself at the vivid imagination of children, but at the same time  I couldn’t help but glance in the direction of her pointing finger. To my surprise I caught the unmistakable puff of mist and snort from a submerging black back. Then another blow and another, “what’s going on here?” I heard myself say out loud. 

 Ironically at that very second, a speeding zodiac full of spray soaked whale watching tourists bounced by on the heavy chop. Twelve or so in dirty yellow raincoats, at eighty dollars a pop, speeding unknowingly by a pod we were seeing up close for free. 

 I couldn’t believe my eyes, killer whales seemed to be everywhere and within the kelp zone, something I had never seen before. I had seen them passing by within binocular range before, but never this close to shore. In the excitement it was impossible to count their number, but there had to be at least six of them swimming along the surface, just off Dallas road in Victoria BC. And maybe even more beneath? They were skirting the shore side of the kelp beds, with what appeared to be a serious purpose.  Perhaps they had trapped a school of salmon in the kelp, or even a seal?

Vancouver Island Birding

Winter Ducks

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  One of the many and varied perks of living on Canada’s west coast is its abundance of waterfowl. The rugged coastline is a powerful magnet for the multitude of over wintering, and passing through migratory birds. Within walking distance from my home or minutes by car, I’d be hard pressed not to find less that a dozen species. In addition, upon closer observation, many, many more.

The Esquimalt Lagoon for example, is large shallow salt-water pond and marsh, trapped in by a long thin drivable sandbar. Its only minutes by car from Victoria and has tidal movements flush it daily. It is a gold mine, for bird watchers, and all the winter ducks can be found there.  On any given day one will find, Great blue, and night herons, Mute Swans, Golden eyes, Buffleheads, Blue bills, Canvasbacks, Coots, both Common, Red-breasted, and Hooded  Mergansers, Pintails, Surf Scoters, Oystercatchers, Sanderlings, Loons,  Harlequin Ducks, American Widgeon, Gadwalls, Northern Shovelers, Pied-billed Grebes, Ruddy Turnstones, Rock Sandpipers, Yellowlegs, and if your lucky, Brant Geese, Snowy Owls, and Common Murre. I’ll also mention a number of Gulls, that I’m afraid I pay little heed too. 

 As you move south west from Victoria and find your self in less populated areas, you’ll fine even more species. On one  lucky occasion I spotted a Brown Pelican out in the kelp beds off China beach. A rare visitor to the Island. 

Starchy [:)

the old Canoe

tales from the Hermitage

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Like runaway locomotives, grey moody clouds scudded across a wine pallid sky. Born from the west, winds pushed rolling white capped haystacks down the lake like an airport escalator. The warmth of May had me reading the old mans journals in the sunlight of my rocky beach. The old man built his cabin on one of only two natural, but tiny open beach sections on the lake. Most of the lakeside was completely out of reach and only visible through picturesque sky holes through the trees.  However, the fact that there is very little beach front on the lake, explained the great abundance of wildlife around the cabin. 

 The south half of the lake is inaccessible wind blown rushes and swamp, and one third of its far length is rocky cliff face.  Until this moment my view and experience of the lake, was limited to the little world around the cabin.  Well into the second of the Doctors Journals, I discovered that he had hidden a canoe.  The canoe had servered him well as he had wisely used the hull as a sled, that was pulled in by horse many winters past by a now defunct logging firm. Runners were fixed to the canoe, and in it came the cast iron stove and a contraption called a “Snorkel” which is simply a boxed in stove that’s immersed in water. Used to heat water for washing or simply for a hot tub.  Along with many other luxury items not easily carried by pack, such as glass panes, nails and hardware.  I had seen the remains of the decaying sled runners, covered in vines and rotting behind the compost fence. And had given up trying to figure out what it was. 

the Great Horned Owl

Tales from the Hermitage

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When I first arrived at the cabin, I’d usually hear them calling to each other from the far end of the lake. However, for the past few days they’ve been hanging around the Hermitage. Perhaps out of curiosity or they’ve thinned out their food supply? One thing I do know is that there’s no ignoring a Horned Owl when he’s in your neighborhood. Especially on quiet hollow nights, and on occasion during the day.  They can be heard for miles, and their call is archetypical of the spooky woods at night. A Foley artists dream, “who who who, is the most commonly associated owl call there is. 

 Until you have heard one in the woods alone, there is no real appreciation of them. I have discovered that they have a number of differing calls, hoots, screams and hissings. And lately for what ever reason they have been screaming around my place.  A terrible blood curdling sound that defies description, other than something or somebody’s being murdered. (and most likely are) That terrible scream could have been the main reason for the pioneers equating the owl with fear in the woods? Their scream is far worse than the baboon caterwauling of the Barred owl in love. Which to the uninitiated camper can be terrifying, if they decide to make whoopee right above your tent at three in the morning.  They can scare the living be-jeepers out of you. But the Barred comes only a close second to the scream of the Horned owl. It sounds like a cross between a wild cat and a human mimicking a banshee.

MOOSE PASTURES

Tales from the Hermitage

 digitalscapes by starchy                                                        all rights reserved

A fractured moon began to reform itself on the dark glistening surface of my rain barrel. Until the mammoth nose eclipsed it again, spilling half its precious contents onto the ground. The vintage mustn’t have pleased the old bull, or it had become fed up with Zibbys constant yapping? Whichever, it now eyed the aging wooden keg with deep suspicion. 

 The little Alder sapling, the only thing quick and handy for me to grab, was beginning to sag.  And as it lifted the heavy barrel, it rolled squarely between its massive blades and rocketed skyward, I slowly sank like an elevator to the ground. It might have been me heading into the starry firmament, if it weren’t for Zibbys constant harassing. 

Zibby darted in and out in little blurred flashes between the behemoths long stick legs. She was so small, if it weren’t for her continual yapping the old bull wouldn’t have known she was there. Zibby seeing me exposed and of interest to the Moose again, snuck in under his chest snarling and snapping. Forcing the big brutes attention back on her, and as if swatting a fly it immediately turned and slashed at her with its huge jagged rack.

THE WOOD STOVE: chapter five

Tales from the Hermitage.

 woodcuts by starchy                                              all rights reserved

My shiner was improving, the swelling had dramatically lessened, but it was still very painful to the touch. Although it looked gross in the mirror, I could now begin to see out of it. The deep scratch on my arm from the mountain lion had scabbed over and was healing, and I was just barely able to use it again. But they both nagged at me and I felt they should be properly attended too. I needed to pick up Zibby and collect a list of basic supplies I would need around the hermitage. So I planned to head back ay first light.

 I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby Moose and I finally gave way to temptation. I decided to go check on her. I snuck back into the meadow, after carefully scanning the tree line shadows for its mother. Seeing no sign of her, I carefully worked my way through the tall grassy field, in the general direction of my last sighting of it.  At my arrival all I found was a little bed of flattened grass where its mother had hidden it. Just incase it was still somewhere nearby I check the meadow throuly. But it had vanished.

THE FIRST DAY: chapter four

Tales from the Hermitage

woodcut by starchy                                                           all rights reserved

 Soft morning shadows from overhanging branches played long wonderful shapes across the inside of my tent fly. Awakening slowly under the sun flooded canopy, I watched the crazy antics of a lone mosquito. Silently, ever persistent, testing the screenings fortifications. I lay, awakening in happy harmony with nature, listening to the haunting love sick songs of a loon. From somewhere close by, came the tiny “ank, ank, ank” of a red breasted nuthatch.

 Although I knew I would get no reaction, I called to Zibby out of shear habit, as I zipped open the damp door. To me that sound is probably one of the nicest sounds there is. Instead of Zibbys pointed face, I was greeted by the early morning mist carpeting the quiet lake. I mumbled a silent “well done” when my lonely loon, finally received an answer from the far end of the lake.

 A woodpecker tapped out paradiddles on a dead hollow tree, somewhere back behind me. Not until it gave its distinctive woodsy cry did I know it was a big Pileated woodpecker. 

ZIBBY ON THE LOOSE

 Lino cut, by starchy                                                            all rights reserved

 

SPIRIT SONG: chapter seven

Tales from the Hermitage

digital art by starchy                                                              all rights reserved 

Standing deep in a Tom Thompson painting, reeling and fighting a two pound trout, I was oblivious to the changes the great artist was making around me. The leaves above me along the shoreline began shivering in a sudden offshore breeze.  Even the young hawk that had been working the thermals high above me all afternoon, had the good sense to leave town.

 Even Ducks sleep with one eye open, yet I couldn’t tell you the exact moment the changes happening all around me took place. There must have been some part of me that was aware, it simply may have been when the crickets and spring peepers grew quiet, I couldn‘t say? Some intuitive guide on my inner watchtower that never sleeps knew, and tried to warn me. A part of me that society has suppressed and has lost touch with knew. Yet I wouldn’t or couldn’t heed the signs. Like driving a car on the highway and suddenly you pop out of your dream and wonder who the hells been driving the car for the last two or three kilometers? Something is aware?