Lovers Creek

Lovers Creek is easy to overlook. While living in Alcona Beach near Lake Simcoe, I crossed it twice each workday, but unless you happened to turn your head at precisely the right moment, you would surely miss it. Though situated in a broad, flat meadow, the creek’s diminutive size, lack of an obvious bridge and flanks that were clothed in tall grasses – helped to keep it well hidden.

In winter, snowshoeing along its bank under a crystalline sky, listening to the sighing of the wind, occasionally punctuated by a far off corvid cacophany, certainly made dragging myself out of a warm, cozy bed worth the effort. Under the right conditions, embracing nature at this time of year can be transcendent experience.

   

Early one spring morning, I loaded my 12 foot Sportspal into (sort of) the 8 foot bed of my Nissan KingCab. Winter was still in evidence, for the banks of the creek sported narrow ledges of ice. Paddling north very slowly – and quietly – from Innisfil Beach Road, my ears were primed for any signs of life. After a long, silent winter, the anticipation of witnessing spring’s return was palpable. I’m sure I held my breath repeatedly. My stealthy progress did not reveal any early, migrating birds – but something much rarer. Running along the west bank – seemingly unaware of my presence – a brown-coloured mustelid was on its crepuscular foray for a tasty morsel. I sat motionless – watching it get ever closer. When it was almost abeam my canoe, it ventured out onto the ice ledge. Only then did it finally see me and stop dead in its tracks. For a brief moment we stared directly at each other. My camera was within easy reach, but any movement on my part would surely have sent the wee beastie heading for cover. What else could one do but say “Good morning”, and watch it hurriedly scurry away. Though the encounter lasted just a few heartbeats, I’ll never forget the joy and wonder of it all.

Another denizen of this watershed – the North American Beaver (Castor candensis) – was responsible for limiting my progress to about a kilometre north of the road. On the plus side, their dam probably made this small creek navigable in the first place. On one warm summer evening, one of the adults made it quite clear that I was not welcome – warning me with a mighty slap of its broad tail.

   

Summer was a glorious time to be on Lovers Creek. Once away from the road, the buzzing of bees, rustle of leaves and mellifluous birdsongs were all one would hear – the simple, haunting call of the Great Crested Flycatcher being a favourite. I recall one time in particular, when after rounding a bend that was slightly upstream of the dam, I stopped, set the paddle down beside me and sat back to marvel at all that was before me – the gently waving grasses; the lazy, sky-reflecting ripples that fanned out whenever I inadvertently rocked the canoe and a beautiful cloud formation that resembled a waterfall, suspended in an azure sky.

   

  

Peace, tranquility and a reverential view of Gaia’s world.

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Into Spring

Winter’s cold, damp ether is soon forgotten, as the softening March air becomes ever so faintly imbued with the redolence of awakening flora. The Redwing Blackbird’s raucous cries proclaim his territorial imperative, thus announcing the glorious end of winter’s bitter, lifeless silence. The sun’s nascent warmth permeates deeply, melting away the last vestiges of the Old Man’s icy grip. Though it is still too soon for flagrant greening, its palpable imminence lifts us from our sullen lassitude, and we head outdoors once again to reacquaint ourselves with the myriad wonders of the natural world.

California Part 2

The next few days were spent on the road – southwards along spectacular Route 1, as far as Santa Barbara, then back to Pacifica through the hinterland along Route 101. The time spent in Big Sur and beyond was replete with memorable sights and experiences – the sublime beauty of the misty coastal vista; foregoing the luxury (and budget-killing expense) of a local resort-style motel to camp instead under ancient Redwoods (yes, I brought a tent with me); a lazy afternoon reading Asimov in their dappled shade; walking from the campground to the local hotspot – the legendary Big Sur River Inn (opened in 1934), for a cold beer and live jazz on the patio that overlooked the (little) Big Sur river; the afternoon blending seamlessly into evening and a hearty, country meal; walking back to the campsite in the dark to a peaceful night’s sleep sheltered by the forest sentinels; exploring secluded sandy beaches nestled amongst the intricate sandstone formations; the trail leading from the highway, down to the ocean where a pencil thin waterfall emptied directly into surf below; the unexpected delight of seeing sea otters in the offshore kelp beds; soaking up the sun and salt air along the boardwalk in Santa Barbara — as well as admiring the local biota — with Steely Dan’s “Hey Nineteen”, as a fitting accompaniment, playing in my head.

For the remaining three days of my stay, I was back at the Pacifica Motor Inn. One more trip downtown on a clean, efficient BART train (Bay Area Rapid Transit — modern, spacious cars with seats upholstered in fabric, not vinyl) which used a pre-paid, mag-stripe card system — quite the novelty at the time. I had some US funds that I wanted to spend, so Happy Hour at the Hard Rock Cafe (Number 6) seemed like a good place to spend it. On my last full day, I visited a museum near San Jose that specialized in all manner of technology – electonics, computers and other nerdy stuff. On returning to the Inn, the key to my room would not open the door. I hurried down to find out what was going on from Mike and Freda. They had taken the liberty of “evicting” me, so that I could spend my last night as their guest — and enjoy a delicious, home-cooked meal. Icing on the cake — and a fitting end to a wonderful adventure.

California Part 1

July 1986: Arrived in San Francisco for a totally unscripted, two week, solo adventure. The only thing arranged ahead of time was my transportation. The gentleman in front of me in the queue for a car had also been on my flight. Mark (can’t recall his name, so that’ll do) had reserved a hand-controlled car that suited his minor disability. The agency had screwed up and his ride was not available. As my itinerary was blank anyway, I offered him a ride to Stanford, where he was to attend a conference. After dropping off Mark, I headed towards the Pacific – after all, it was California and the ocean beckoned. After reaching the coast, I turned north – back in the general direction of San Francisco to scout for my night’s accommodation. The first motel I stopped at was a bit too dear, so I drove on and decided appeasing my hunger was more important at that moment. I made a casual inquiry at the restaurant – my waitress told me of a nearby motel which might fit the bill. It turned out to be a very good choice.

The Pacifica Motor Inn was steps from the beach and the proprietors made me feel right at home. Mike, originally from Detroit and Freda, from Toronto, had met while working in Switzerland. Upon returning to the States, they married and just a few days before my arrival, took on the job of managing this recently opened establishment. This became my base of operations for the next eight days. Wandering the vertically-challenging streets of ‘Frisco (as I lacked the patience to stand in line for a cable car), viewing the cityscape from the art deco Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill; birding along US Route 1 north of the Bay area, absorbing the pristine natural beauty of the old growth Coastal Redwoods at Muir Woods National Monument, and kicking about on nearby beaches and headlands, filled my days. Surprisingly, though it never rained for my entire stay, I never saw a sunset, as the fog would roll in reliably every afternoon. Several evenings were spent socializing with Freda and Mike – dinner out; dinner and/or drinks at their place – they even set me up for a dinner date with another one of their guests – Laura, who had driven cross-country from Florida.

Fisherman’s Wharf and Alcatraz

One of the murals in the Coit Tower rotunda

Coastal Redwoods

Beachcombing

Sunset-spoiling fogbank

Coming soon – Part 2: South to Santa Barbara

Bridge

With our feet firmly rooted in the messy muck that is life, and our eyes turned wistfully up to the firmament yearning for the promises of paradise, we habitually drag ourselves through the calendar with scant regard for the serendipitous offerings that generously pepper the middle latitudes ensconced between the banal tasks of daily reality and the friable dreams of fantasy. The bridge connecting these disparate landscapes affords us the best of all possible views.

From this vantage point we can see clearly the vital importance of maintaining an intimate relationship with the natural world, as well as acknowledging the myriad of advantages bequeathed to us by modernity. Both spheres are of utmost importance in guiding humanity’s long, difficult quest to create a world that is sustainable, equitable and respectful to all sentient creatures. From this bridge it is readily apparent that these paradigms must resolve their conflicts – to find a way to come together in a symbiotic congress.

Myth

Except for the things you experience personally and the things you learn by means of your own toil and sweat, everything else might as well be myth. But given that vicarious knowledge is by far the pre-eminent way that we learn about the intricacies of a exceedingly complex world, the most important question to ask yourself then becomes, “How trustworthy are my sources?” In an age where we have virtually unlimited access to information purporting to be the truth, skepticism and critical assessment are invaluable tools for screening out the dreck. Doubt is your stalworth ally in this vital endeavour.

Illusion

Despite the ethereal characteristics of matter and energy; despite the intrinsic indeterminacy of the quantum realm; despite the raw, unsettling discontinuities of time itself; despite all this and the immense difficulty of painting a cohesive picture that captures reality’s true nature, these facets of our imagingings are all inexorably entwined in a gloriously convincing illusion.