As I write this, in a cosy bistro, another in a series of fierce Pacific storms is slamming into the southwest coast of British Columbia.
It’s not exactly the best of cycling weather, though more than a few brave souls are out, pedalling against the stinging rain, driven by winds gusting to 70 km/h.
You won’t find me complaining though. As the weather wimps of Canada, us “Raincoasters” can hardly resent snowdrops—I mean the white blooms that broke through soil weeks ago—or the cherry blossoms already dabbing pointillist dots of pink on city avenues.
Somewhere, perhaps along a boggy margin of Lochside Trail, the skunk cabbage (Lysichiton americanus) is calling out in its stinky tongue to lethargic insects. Despite the repellant interpretation of my human proboscis, I’ll be drawn into the shadows to view lurid yellow petals enfolding a phallic flower—spring’s botanical hard-on.
Between February storms, skies are a painter’s (or in my case, photographer’s) dream, swirled and slashed with big brushstrokes of gunmetal blue, palettes of grey smeared over blinding whites and, as the sun sinks low, pinks and mauves and reds leaking over undulating seas.
Harlequin ducks (Histrionicus histrionicus) strut their stuff along the shore, paddle in groups, or preen on barnacle-encrusted rocks.
Victoria’s mild weather stirs early avian love-ins. Hummingbirds stay year-round. Up-Island communities, like Parksville and Courtney, prepare the festival built around the annual arrival of brant geese (Branta bernicla nigricans), in March.
Spring gales push me along the edge of jagged charts. Barometric oscillations draw me toward the tide, empty as a glass float.
Down on the rocky beach, I rifle through my bag for a camera lens worthy of the scene, a futile exercise, like these words. Do I put on my wide-angle “eye,” or take the long view? Such is the the poets’ burden.
He wanted to be a seer and, picking up the pen, ended up a technologist.
Latest Tweets
I recall the Canadian spring of 1994, at least that is what it was by the calendar. I was cycling across Ontario through snow and ice, it was a bit chilly during the daylight hours then once the sun went down it would have been warmer in the freezer at home in Ireland. Every night my sweaty clothes and wet shoes froze solid, even though they were in my sleeping bag, and then every morning I took off my dry clothes and put the cold and frozen ensemble back on again for another cold day in the saddle. The locals told me, by means of a consoling thought on their parts, ” It’s usually much warmer this time of year!”
I remember the Canadian Spring, it is burned in my mind, toes and face, it was worse than any winter in Ireland, but was so glad to be there to experience it. That which does not kill me can only make me stronger.
That was my grandfather’s favourite saying. I think sometimes what might not kill us can leave us a little less sane … though sanity’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
My love for cold weather and the wilderness areas has always lead sensible people to question my sanity. My reply is usually, “I’m normal, everyone else is f&@led up!”
As a result of this my Blackfoot name is Cold Weather Mountain Man, don’t ask to spell or say it in Sioux as my wife is the only one who can do that.
If you click on the “climbing” or “skiing” categories in the right sidebar, you’ll see I have a good argument for claiming that mantle as well. It’s the Nordic heathen in me.
Alas, I’ve been lounging in centrally-heated “civilization” too long. My hot blood has cooled, perhaps.
Luxury Son!! Luxury!!
Comments on this entry are closed.