Good Morning Sunshine

It may come as a surprise to my cadre of rabid followers (2 readers total) that I am not, in fact, a morning person.  I have 'not been a morning person' for my entire life, including my birth, for which I was 2 weeks late.  Even then I didn't bother showing up until 4 in the afternoon.

Don't get me wrong. Lot's of great things happen at morning time: Christmas... dew... sunrise...birdsong... wood.  No, it's mornings in general that I can do without.  The cat jumping onto my face at 5:30 AM to tell me the dog has been sick.   The chill on my skin when I struggle out from under the blankets.  The sight of my cat peacefully sleeping on my pillow the moment my head vacates it.  Tripping over the Rotwieller.  Wincing in the bright lights of the mirror.  Stairs.

I firmly believe that people who commit random acts of violence would never do so if they hadn't first been ripped from slumber by a harsh world and forced to face the dim reality that they completely forgot to buy more cream for coffee the day before.  The only reason I am not currently naked in a tower with a deer rifle is that I found some coffee whitener in the camp box.

Mornings remind us that our bodies are rapidly moving through time.  They show us the forgotten debris from the night before.  Mornings are usually when appliances break and loved ones become expansively ill on the kitchen floor.  Mornings are when you remember the things you have forgotten and wished you hadn't.  Mornings are the Universe saying: Now I bet you wish you'd stayed in the trees.

Humans are not meant for mornings.  We are meant to be clinging peacefully to the branch, 30 feet above the jungle floor, safe from predators, gently snoring through the dawn chorus.  Not sitting here in an
un-ironed shirt, sipping camp coffee and secretly envying the hell out of my cat.

Ode To My Cat

My worries and troubles tangle in your whiskers and are brushed away with the flick of an ear.
Nose to nose, we stare at each other, unblinking.
Your soft paws pat my chest in a sleepy rhythm.
Do you have to wake me up twenty minutes before my alarm every damn day?

The Little Douche Coup

It is a sad day for me today friends.  My trusty car, The Red Wonder ('I wonder if it will start today') is on it's last legs, so to speak. This is not something that has happened overnight.  It has been a very gentle decline, a sort of coast downhill in Mexican overdrive.

It started with a glitchy ignition, which only engages if the moisture content of the air is just right, i.e. whatever is the exact opposite of that normally found in a temperate rain forest.  Then the horn died, which means I occasionally lean on the airbag in silent outrage when I get cut off.  This is far less satisfying than you think.  

After the horn went, the rear driver-side window followed soon after.  It didn't go anywhere, but it just sort of floats around in the door.  I spent 45 minutes locked out of my car one afternoon before it occurred to me that having a window I can slide down while outside of the car is a great feature, one I wished I'd recalled about 44 minutes sooner.

Once the ignition, horn and window all began shirking their duties, I think the rest of the car just got lazy.  The passenger door sticks.  The interior light won't turn off unless I remove the bulb.  Something is squeaky under the hood.  The muffler rattles.   The only thing that seems to be functioning is the little orange light on my dashboard which assures me that, yes, it has checked and there is an engine.  

But Husband, who would rather ride a Pogo stick to work than take a car in to a garage, finally stepped in and offered help when I fired her up this morning and a sound like the sins of angels came screaming from under the hood.  The squeak has suddenly became an ear-piercing shriek which disturbed Husband  from his morning's slumber and seriously put a passing eagle off his breakfast.  

I am not in the market for a new car. I have faith in Husbands' ability to repair everything from a roof to an electric cheese grater.  A mere car is no match for his skills with the Duct Tape and blow torch.  And I have no problems driving his van in the interim. 

I just wish it had a loose window, since I've already locked the keys inside it.

  

Sweet Goodbye

Summer's over.  There can be no doubt about this.  I woke up this morn to discover that at some point during the night husband had stolen all the blankets.  This is a sure sign that Summer is on her way out.  I could also hear the sound of rain pounding on the roof through my cat, who had wrapped herself around my head like a turban.  All cats know this survival trick, employed when they are in grave danger of having to spend a night indoors in a well-furnished home.
Yes, there are signs about which tell me that while Summer may not be completely gone, She is certainly standing on the front porch, nervously jingling her keys. And as I sit here nursing the first cold of the season I have a chance between sneezes to think over the summer's adventures....

I tried climbing again-for-the-first-time with Husband, who learned that if you buy a girl new shoes, she will do just about anything to wear them. Even if that means scale a craggy mountain side.

We went to Wild Play in Naniamo, an adventure park filled with ropes and bridges suspended in the amazing canopy of the local old-growth forest. I learned that Husband will do anything I ask him to do, if it costs less than a pair of climbing shoes.

Tubing! I could write an entire piece on tubing and still not have said enough about soaking the heat of the day out of your bones as you float down the river.  Each time was a little different from the last as the river winds along its' course.  There is nothing more pleasant, more quintessentially BC than tubing. The fact that it is also moderately low cost (tube:$26; Gas:$10; beer afterwards: $6) means I was on the river 3 days out of every 7 since June.

Camping on Quadra Island clearly made an impression and will hopefully be repeated before we are posted away.

Husband surprised me with a trip to the Pacific National Exhibition (PNE) which was fantastic.  It reminded us both of every great fair we've ever gone to as kids.

BBQ's, backyard parties, dinners on patios, helping friends move, cycling, swimming and generally ignoring the phone were enjoyed to the fullest.  Farewell Summer.  Until next year, I shall think fondly of you as I sit, sipping Neocitron (TM), sneezing and wearing a cat hat.
Cheers.

Day Two: Let's take the bikes for a walk

When the owner of the trail bike shop is wearing a neck-brace, you tend to take his totally unsolicited route advice more seriously.  Which is why we did NOT drive into the northern region of Quadra to do Norton Lake Trail.  Instead we drove out to Morte Lake (that means EXACTLY what you think it means) to do a 'fairly easy route for beginners who are just getting into the sport.'

Right.

Two minutes in I had already switched to my trail shoes and ditched the helmet.  Half and hour later we were still carrying our bikes and thinking maybe we should have asked Steve 'this neck-brace is really itchy' Jones* for some clarification on his definition of the words 'fairly easy.'

However, after hike-riding, a new sport we developed right on the spot, for another hour up and down some of the rockiest slag strewn trail ever seen, we made it to as perfect a little beach as you could imagine.  White sand and cool water, surrounded by massive trees and not a single sign of bear poop (I checked).  We had to admit that it was worth the trek in.  To be perfectly honest, once I had stopped mentally picturing Steve in a series of dangerous situations which would add to his need for braces on multiple body parts, I started to take a more active interest in the scenery we were slogging through.  The route, despite the obvious downfall of being 100% horrible while carrying a 25 lb. bike over my shoulder, offered some fantastic views.  Huge trees you could build a house in, panoramic vistas of Morte Lake with Victoria Peak in the distance.  Those white sandy beaches beckoning us forward, and the ever-present eagle flying overhead.

Morte Lake Trail is a 7.2 km route meant to be hiked on foot, sans bicycle, and it really is worth the look.  Next time, I'll ditch the bike and bring the camera instead.

*Names have been changed to protect the incredibly unhelpful.

Welcome to The Hood

Welcome.  I am Tam, fondly known as 'Remote' by Husband, who is also 'Paycheck'.  That about covers everything.

Let's begin...

What started out as a canoe trip on the lovely lakes of Vancouver Island became a week-long car camping excursion instead.  This in effort to spare Husband's shoulder which had become injured while knee boarding/rock-climbing/trail-biking/skydiving/river tubing/all-night badminton-ing or any combination of the above. It was decided that a quiet camping trip on Quadra Island would be an ideal chance to rest the injured shoulder and escape the daily grind as listed above.

Quadra Island is the largest of the Northern Gulf Island group in British Columbia.  A fjordy place, which is not a word but should be, there is a sense of remoteness and majesty to it's lakes and peaks, even though the Pacific Range looms on the east and lovely Vancouver Isle sits to the west.  Quadra is a special place without the dramatic neighbours, filled with eagles and salmon and peaceful-eyed locals who will happily sell you coffee and offer free advice on trails and routes.  

Day One:  Main Lake Canoe Route

Marriage doesn't come with a manual.  It shouldn't, that would spoil all the surprises.  Like secret fudge addictions or Husband's unfailing ability to attract bears.  What seemed innocent enough, a day spent canoeing a route through Quadra's interior freshwater lake system, turned into the typical comedy of errors which has been and continues to be our version of wedded bliss these four years.  The first clue should have been the vulture.  In a land of eagles, surrounded by eagles, what do we see?  Cathartes Aura, the Turkey Vulture.  Majestic, yes.  Impressively large wingspan, check.  Goodwill ambassador of the avian world, not as such.

Still, wildlife is wildlife and I am a bird freak so after snapping a dozen blurry photos we paddled on.  Lunch was spent watching dragonflies dance over the surface of the water, our paddle-sore backs pressed against a massive mature sitka spruce. Everything you need to know about the difference between Husband and I can be summed up thusly:  I look upon such giant trees as vast fingers of memory, stretching far into our past.  Husband declared, while munching his sandwich, that he could build 'a wicked little airplane' out of it.  

This perfect day was capped by a dip in the waters of Main Lake.  We leapt.  We frolicked.  I might even go so far as to say we cavorted (but ended up re-injuring The Shoulder so we had to stop) and it wasn't until we were toweling off in the the warm afternoon sunshine that I spotted IT.  A big, steaming pile of IT to be precise.   Bear IT.  And, upon further investigation, it turned out that we were surrounded by lots and lots of IT, ranging from white and crusty and nearly dusty to fresh-as-this-very-morning's dew.

Husband who, on our honeymoon, selected a tent site in Algonquin Park which can only be described as ill-advisedly abundant in blueberry bushes (the Black Bear's natural breakfast food of choice) had once again demonstrated his bear-baiting prowess by parking me in Smokey's toilet.