Santa at Searchmount

The week before Christmas is always kind of crazy. Cookie exchanges, list checking and late nights all roll into one blur. We can relate to Santa’s nonstop worker elves. But in the short run it is all worth it. What else are we going to do when daylight shrinks and temperatures plummet?

This advent of winter has brought out the Lake Superior steam clouds big time. In the early, minus 20 mornings, pink and yellow mountains of heat float off the water. With just a slight puff of wind the steam mists swirl across the lake. When you see that happening, you know that it is a face freezing day and time to seek comfort in food, warmth and friendship.

Family and friends do take up the front row this time of year. Connecting is crucial. This season is for greeting. But there is a change in the air. Technology and lack of funds are altering how we communicate. The latest swoop has come with the planned elimination of door-to-door mail delivery. Not that anyone is too surprised. Much of the mail is advertising and handwritten letters are on the endangered list.

We have been using a post box for over two decades. At one time a visit to our post office was a social occasion. Folks met, had a coffee and chatted up the latest story. But a few years ago Canada Post gave Montreal River the outdoor, super mailbox, which is fine unless there is a blizzard or by some error you get someone else’s mail. Then you become the door-to-door deliverer.

Wondering what the other folks might do for mail, I Googled UK, France and Germany postal services. Another perspective on a situation always helps.

In France, mail delivery started when Louis XI initiated postal relays in 1477. No email hacking for him. By 1576 the ordinary citizen could access the system. Today 100,000 post men and women deliver mail door-to-door each morning.

In Germany, workers still deliver letters and parcels. The local post office often is in a stationery or grocery store. There a separate section allows you to buy stamps, mail a package, deposit or withdraw money and apply for a credit card. That’s right. The post office is also a bank. That’s true for the UK too, where the Post Office provides other services such as insurance and the ability to obtain forms such as a driver’s license, passport or car registration.

England offers another unique option. The Postbus (the mail delivery van) has a few seats for passengers. One can hail the Postbus and, if traffic allows, the driver will stop and pick you up. Fees depend on distance and one’s age. Mail has had a long history in the UK. Henry VIII set up the King's mail in 1516. By 1635, the Royal Mail provided postal services for the public.

So mail delivery has been a global phenomenon for centuries. And there’s been one type of letter that has been quite special since 1869. That’s when a certain writer wrote out that red-suited,  roly poly gentleman’s address. That year, in the publication Santa Claus and his Works, a George P. Webster described Santa’s home as being “near the North Pole, in the ice and snow”. Gulp. Did Webster realize what he did? He gave Santa the claim to the North Pole. For over a hundred years, millions of children have written to that address. But hold on. The Canadian government has put in a bid for that floating ice sheet. How does Canada Post plan to deliver Santa’s mail? And with that rich resource beneath the two and half miles of Arctic Ocean, the elves might leave the workshop for the oil fields.

Mmmm, maybe it’s time Santa got a new address. Ontario has a lot of beautiful snowscapes, including those right here in Algoma. I like Tom Mills’ idea to build a home for Santa at Searchmount, with the Snow Train as the perfect Polar Express. And Santa could make side trips to Lake Superior to see ice castles sparkling along the shore.

Well it is 2013, almost 2014. Why not? I’ll give the old guy the suggestion.  In fact I’ll write him a letter right now.

Merry Christmas everyone and don’t forget to take your naps. Santa does.

Yours truly.

Truth at the Bottom of the Well‏

Too bad Victor Hugo never made it to Canada. Even though it’s not Guernsey, he would have liked it here. He had that kind of soul.

Knowing that I was going to see the Musical Comedy Guild’s production of Les Mis, I headed off to the public library and borrowed Hugo’s Les Miserables for a couple of months. He wrote and published his massive text in early 1860 while in exile. At the time he was living on the island of Guernsey, which he loved, but not as much as his beloved France. For me, curling up with the book each evening was a reprieve from the daily brew of grinding news. One gets overwhelmed trying to figure out who is the real coach behind the bench of the Ottawa Senate, how hockey is going to evolve and where to find the best deal on a new tablet. And I wanted to learn why the words Javert, Valjean, Fantine and Cosette have become part of our vocabulary.

This diversion to Victor Hugo has pumped up my regard for nature, which is helpful as we deal with shorter days and a deeper cold. Winter arrived early and now has settled in for the season. Maybe that excellent bounty of berries this summer was an indication of a long hard winter. But that’s ok. Like the rabbits that have turned white and the foxes that grow thick fat tails, we too, can adapt.  The latest bout of sub zero temperatures has accelerated ice formation. The water in the top layers of the little lakes has succumbed and ice now covers our favourite little mirrors. This early ice is surprising but it does bring us a favourite winter pastime - skating. While the joy in a pond skate is delicious thing, the exhilaration of a Lake Superior skate is a bit more of a shaky promise. But, it could be different this year. Ice has crept into some of the more secluded bays. Plus the Batchawana, Goulais and Pancake Rivers are glossing over. Here at Montreal River Harbour, our present version of ice is slippery bedrock. A solid Lake Superior might appear much later in the winter, if at all.

A December skate on a frozen pond is one of our unique cultural treats. Combine this with the early darkness and you can skim across the ice under a sky parade. The moon slides across the black velvet of a star riddled backdrop. Then the shower of light from the Milky Way and the bold angle of the Big Dipper steal the show.

Hugo would have appreciated the magic of such simplicity. His writing describes all that. “When after a day spent in meditation he returned home by the evening light of the boulevards and saw through the branches of the trees the measureless space of the infinite, the nameless lights, the darkness and mystery, it seemed to him that all things not simply human were of little account.”

No wonder Hugo’s words make one want to sing. The drama of his heart wrenching story, combined with Boubil and Schonberg’s music, entrances an audience. And the Sault’s Musical Comedy Guild outdid themselves with their version of this story. I was at the Kiwanis theatre for opening night and thoroughly enjoyed the performance. The singing was superb. The choreography was delightful. The interactions on stage were infectious. The performance imitated one of Hugo’s quotes from Les Miserables. “If you are a stone, be magnetic; if a plant, be sensitive; but if you are a human, be love.”

And love they were. The joy and excitement in all the performers was contagious. One could feel the anticipation right from the opening scene when the prisoners ambled down the aisle with their invisible chains, chains that held us all captive throughout the performance. Javert’s flaming torch, alive with fire, reminded us that this theatre was real. The pure exuberance of the finale filled the hall with pure true spirit.

Hugo had much to say about human spirit. “He ( Marius) believed, and perhaps he was right, that he had penetrated to the heart of life and human philosophy, and he came to pay little attention to anything except the sky, which is the only thing that Truth can see from the bottom of her well.”

Yes, Hugo, you would have loved our open spaces and the truth to be found in our trees, water, rocks and sky. You might have been in exile but you stayed close to home with your thoughts and words. And maybe, just maybe, through them you came to Canada after all.

NDD Readings

Wind warnings were all over the internet. They said to expect 90 km.
Then the weather office issued a severe weather bulletin. Time to
hunker down here by Lake Superior at Montreal River and wait for it
all to happen.

I had scheduled Sunday afternoon to write my column about the
extinction of distinction. But the signs of impending November gales
were too much to ignore. I switched gears, grabbed my NDD’s
(non-digital devices) and decided to follow the progress of the storm.
My NDD’s included pen, paper, a barometer from the 1970s (The numbers
it gives are not of the digital accuracy, but the rotating needle does
portend the weather.), an outside thermometer from the 1990s and a set
of eyes. For 24 hours I noted what’s what and learned how a storm of
this size traipses through our yard.

The first hint that something was up came when I got up early Sunday
morning. I went outside and was met by unusual warmth. It was 12 C and
the air felt thick, mushy and full of that persistent perpetual
dampness that is so November.

At 10:27 am I tapped on our trusty wooden barometer. Our unit had
flinched down to 98.0 kPa and was heading towards Stormy from Rain. Oh
yeah, keep an eye on that, I thought. By 12:30 pm the reading was 97.1
and the temperature was 14C. When the sun tried to peek out from under
cloud cover, its light had a strange brilliant intensity. The sky was
a milky grey; the lake was grey; the dark grey horizon was straight
and small SW rollers made bumps under a smooth surface. Gulls sitting
on the lake showed the only white on the water.

At 1:10 pm, our barometer had sunk further, entering the Stormy range.
Ten minutes later a swarm cloud of gulls circled out over the lake,
the horizon got fuzzy and a grey white wall was heading in from the
SW. Rain began to fall, a few drops at first then a major downpour. By
2:40pm, with a barometer at 97.0, the rain was firing down like
bullets. There was no horizon, no whitecaps, little wind and the same
small rollers.

An hour and a half later, the rain still was coming - not bullets but
a steady dance. At 4:57 a gentle rain plinked on the puddles. It was
back to 12c; our barometer dipped to 96.7 and darkness began to settle
in. There was the same gentle roll under a calm lake. The sky was 50
shades of grey. As the light faded I began to wonder what all the
warnings and fuss were about.

Except that our barometer continued to plummet. By 7:45 it read 96.0;
the puddles were getting fat on all that rain and there still was no
wind.

But, not for long. Around 9:00pm I detected a shift. And by 9:30 we
heard horizontal rain pelting the windows and that unmistakeable,
constant roar. Barometer at 95.9. Ouch. The march of the waves had
begun. Four hours later the wind was a window rattling battering ram.
And, at first light, the monstrous foamy mouth of one of the biggest
waves I’ve ever seen smashed onto the bedrock and devoured the shore.
The rest of the morning was never ending 3-4 m monster waves and
driving rain. Then, temperatures fell, rain turned to snow, the waves
started their collapse and barometer readings began their climb back
up. And later that afternoon I heard of storm consequences - trees on
power lines, rivers over flowing over their banks and a lake freighter
seeking refuge in Batchawana Bay.

Our November Gales are the stuff of legends. When Superior becomes a
tumultuous white sea, the stories of men and ships lying on the bottom
always seem to surface. One hundred years ago, from Nov 6, 1913 to Nov
11, 1913, there was a storm with 145 km winds and 11 m waves. That
gale hit the Great Lakes basin, taking out 19 ships and drowning 250
people. Most of the damage was in Lake Huron, with Lake Superior
swallowing the Leafield and the Henry B Smith. In May, 2013,
searchers, using computer data, discovered the wreckage of the Smith.
But only Lake Superior knows how to find the Leafield.

Today our severe weather bulletins make lake travel much safer and
digital devices have awesome advice. They can make accurate forecasts
and keep us connected when the predictions prove true. But, at the
same time, let’s not forget to keep our own wits sharp too. For they
give us the real warning about an approaching storm.

100,000 Years of Circadian Rhythm

Enough is enough. That one hour is too precious. I really don’t want to give it away again.

Adjusting to the time change has always been an ordeal. We weren’t meant to live our lives by a clock. We were meant to run our lives by natural light. That’s 100,000 years of circadian rhythm. Going to sleep after dark and arising with the sun is how we evolved. But in came electricity and the flickering screen, so bye - bye sleep. The bears have it right – hit the dens when the sun heads south and come back out when the light returns.

I like the closing in of the darkness, the pre winter days of low light and early orange sunsets.  A walk through the woods, now that the leaves are down, is a step through a world of slanty shadows. Light pops through in different ways. And sometimes the blinding brightness off Lake Superior filters through the trees to ignite a late fall surprise, a bit of wonder from a declining season. Last week small, pure white mushrooms beamed like the petals of some alien delicate flower. This week, the view around leafless trees opened up an undulating, dusky forest floor. The grey glory of November has arrived.

In nature, life is exceedingly simple. In our modern life, simple things have become exceedingly complex. Turning the clocks back an hour is an obvious example. To get a handle on this time shift I discovered some very interesting data. The idea to set clocks back an hour first entered our world through the portal of Benjamin Franklin’s genius in 1784. He was in Paris at the time as the first US ambassador to France. The Americans had just won their independence after a nasty war with England. The French had been huge players in this win; their navy scoring very important victories off the eastern seaboard. But the war had cost France a pretty penny and now the country was broke. To save money on candles, Franklin suggested the time change. Then, in 1895, Canadian George Hudson suggested our government mandate a two hour change back and forth (I’m glad that idea didn’t come to fruition!). Another plan emerged in 1905 when William Willet thought we should adjust the clocks in 20 minute increments each Sunday in September and April. That went nowhere too. But in 1916, to save much needed energy for the war effort, the Canadian government rolled back the clocks and marched them forward again in the spring. History tells the rest. We’re still at it.

The past weekend when we changed our clocks, a few places in the country avoided the switch. All of Saskatchewan, with its thousands of adamant, common sense farmers, rejects the change except for Lloydminster where the Alberta /Saskatchewan border runs right through the town. Parts of B. C. including the Peace River region and the East Kootenays, said no. And in our own province of Ontario we also have a couple of nay sayer places - Pickle Lake, New Osnaburgh and Atikokan.

I decide to find out more. I called Thelma Cameron in Atikokan. She is an owner of the Fletcher Canoe Company and said that when she arrived in Atikokan in the 1980s the no - time - change rule was in place then.

Cameron says that people in her town are quite happy with their time situation. “We really like that we don’t have the time change,” she said.  “Every once in a while there is another vote but the town always says, ‘Let’s leave it ’”. When she and I talked about the difficulties of adjusting to the time change Cameron laughed. “Then the people in Atikokan must be well adjusted,” she said.

There are regular reminders for the folks in Atikokan that most of the country adjusts their clocks twice a year. Besides having to set computers and cell phones, their closest cities adopt the rigours of Daylight Saving Time. Fort Frances, the closest city west of Atikokan is in the Manitoba time zone, which is an hour behind Ontario. But when the clocks go back, Atikokan and Fort Frances are on the same hour. And when Thunder Bay, the closest city to the east, puts their clocks back, Atikokan time is then an hour ahead.

This is such a complicated relationship that we have created with time and light. We have four months before the time change gives us another hit. On March 9^th, 2014 we once more return to Daylight Saving Time and forfeit an hour. Until then we might as well adjust and enjoy a wee bit of extra morning light and java. And strengthen up for the coming winter. At least that’s some thought to fall back on. 

Hard Rocks, Old Wood and Light Rails

The waves are up. The lake is starting to churn and the windows are wet with rain. Time to put another log on the fire.
This fall, as we add firewood to our wood stove, we shall remember the Batchawana man who helped us with wood deliveries for many years. I am speaking of Gord Chapman, the kind, caring gentleman whose heart gave out at the Frater station along the A.C.R. the week before Thanksgiving. His passing is a great loss for Batchawana as well as for the global community of generous, giving individuals.
And as this autumn advances into that colder season (which I shall not name at this moment) we approach the end of this year’s colour world. So a couple of days ago I hiked a shore trail to breathe in the last of the brilliant golds and reds. The fresh fall of maple and poplar leaves laid out a colour carpet on the forest floor. The deep blue of swooshing waves mixed with the low shine of sun on the water. An eagle drifted high overhead while a clan of loons made their last gathering before heading south. But the hills all around were void of colour; the greys of November already were making their claim on the landscape.
There is no doubt that our Algoma fall colours are a worldwide hit, with a big part of that fame due to ACR’s Agawa Canyon Tour Train. We live beside this unique train corridor into the wilderness but, like a lot of good things, people might take it for granted. I decided to reboot my awareness of train lore and tried to collect some stories about the Frater station. Frater, about 13 km south of the Agawa Canyon, used to be a busy stop along the Tour Train route. Today, tourists whizzing by the Frater sign would not know that the place once resembled a little town. Loggers and sightseers driving the winding, rough Frater Road from Highway 17 North to the train tracks might not realize that the area once was a warm welcoming home for many people. An interview with Sault resident and retired ACR superintendent, Newell Mills, gave fresh insight. Mills recalled for me the look of Frater in its heyday. He said that a bunkhouse for workers, section house for the foreman, operator’s house, train station, coal chute, water tank and post office lined both sides of the tracks. Frater was an active place and the “Frater Turn” was part of the reason why.
Mills explained that a freight train would leave the Steelton station in Sault Ste Marie and 102 miles later arrive at Frater. There, a Y in the tracks allowed the engine to turn around and face the Sault instead of the Agawa Canyon. Then the train would back down the hill to the canyon, pick up whatever deliveries it had to make and climb back up the hill to Frater. In those days, trainmen worked 100 miles or less a day so they stayed the night at Frater before making the return run to the Sault the following day.
Stories of railroad life carry a romance and history all their own. Train stations are a real life stop along life’s journey; are an authentic break in the schedule. And every time I hear the A.C.R. I am reminded that there is a wilderness waiting just outside our door.

Honey Mushroom Foam

Hold the door open. The warm days are calling folks outside. And out there somewhere, there’s a shiny coloured tree for everyone. The annual eye feast never fails to present us with that wow factor.

     We decided to check out the scene and hiked one of our favourite trails in Lake Superior Provincial Park - the first lookout on the Awausee. The trailhead is a short drive on Highway 17 North, about a kilometre north of the Agawa River bridge. The short but steep climb to the first lookout ends up being a great workout. It starts as a meander under waving yellow maples along an old logging road. Be on the lookout for resident partridge families. Soon a trail veers off the road and the ascent begins. The gentle rush of a creek as it tumbles over rocks combined with the rustle of falling leaves added to the ambiance. Halfway up the hill,  caught the morning light on a fallen birch tree. After several more inclines over root steps and pine needled pathways, we reached a small rocky outcrop that offers a place to meditate and imagine. This is the first lookout.

     Whew! The view pulls you in with its magnificence. Lake Superior stretches to your right. The Agawa Valley dives off to the left. Steep cliff faces frame the view. The bridge over the river is a toothpick construction. The road is a thin grey thread. Orange and red maples make a quilt lying on the floor below. A pine sits on bare granite, its roots exposed as they seek cracks in the rock. Grey soft lichens and short bear berry bushes circle the brave conifer. The trunk of the tree is bent and dark; two branches reach out from the top. One branch appears younger, more vital, a more recent addition to the tree’s growth and help to survive the wind blasts, deluges, frost, snow, ice, and intense heat. Now I call the tree “Old Awausee”.

     After a few more minutes we descended the hill, following the creek as it too streamed downhill. Later the next day I sat by the shore just enjoying the peacefulness. The lake was flat. The sun sent blinding glints everywhere but I did manage to glimpse the shadow of a dragonfly on the muscled bedrock beside me. Then that night a bright white ring circled the moon, a folk prediction for change. Three calm days later the winds came. But the warmth still remained; hence a walk along a windblown shore was comfortable. Wave watching was easy. With no freezy spray to upstage the enjoyment, the water ballet was a joy. Along the beach the waves were long rolls of green and white shimmers. They came in sets, 2 seconds of silence between each roller. Their foam was a lace doily making repeated, useless attempts to settle on the beach. But the pebbles got a good ride. The rolling water picked them up, suspended them in the curl, tossed them up on the shore then pulled them back again .The tiny rocks sang a swooshy clatter song as wave smothered wave smothered wave smothered wave.

     During that same wavy day, the scene on bedrock was a different thing. The shore was a maelstrom, with foam crashing around boulders as wave smashed into wave into wave. No time for silence here.

Spaces between waves, shadows of dragonflies and the strength of valiant trees are clues from the season. Their details tell us where we are at the moment. They prepare us for the next wave; teach us to grow a new branch; show us the significance of shadow. Plus they are reminders that from time to time that we better keep the window open too.

A Split Decision

Heads or tails. Wet or dry? Brilliant colour or muted tones? We’ll know at the end of this new season.

On one rainy day this week, one on which I was not quite ready to move into fall, I took a look at the photos of my activities this past summer. I smiled as I took a photo journey back to August when, thanks to friends, we were able to motor out to Montreal Island.  Some pix of strolling along the sand spit that stretches into Lake Superior like the prow of a ship lit up the small screen on a dull day. Wanting to experience more of that island experience, I Google mapped Montreal Island for another perspective on the place. Zooming in I saw the same sand spit but the satellite view made the beautiful long beach resemble the beak of a bird or the tip of a broken handle on a mug.

When we are using our eyes like this for many hours a day, it is inevitable that we will end up taking our peepers for granted. Plus, we have high expectations that they always will deliver, especially this time of year when we’re waiting for our annual colour feast.

That’s provided of course that you can negotiate beyond the recent rain curtains that have been blocking out the scenery. There sure has been a lot of water descend on our little planet this year. Algoma region got its share last week and there are probably more rain events to come. We must have a river in the sky because it just felt that we were living under a waterfall.

All this rain had to come from somewhere. True, the melting glaciers fill the skies with H2O but surely that load gets dumped before hitting us. Another logical source to think of is Lake Superior. Has all that evaporation filled the skies to the maximum? We’ve been aware that for a number of years the water has been leaving the lake. People complained about the drop in lake levels. Docks became dry. Swamps turned into grasslands. Gabions lost their role as shore protectors and morphed into decorative baskets of stone. But now we are witnessing a return to what once was. An easy way to see this change is to look at the edge of the causeways along the drive up Highway 17 North. Water now teases the ramparts of concrete and stone. One side of the roadway at Haviland is back to being a wetland and the crossing at Mamainse threatens to tickle the highway. (I still remember driving home along this section during a fall storm and dodging wave-tossed driftwood on the road.)

Another result of the recent local deluge was the wash out under the ACR tracks near the Fifth Line in Sault Ste Marie. Driving into the city last week we became part of the long line–up that formed as trucks full of tons of rock moved in and out of a new emergency access road close to the tracks. The train stood dormant on the overpass, visible to all of us with its silent promise of mobility - a far cry from the rush of steel on track.  I thought of all the disappointed folks who were so looking forward to the fall colour run up to Agawa canyon. Mind you, the colours are flat and late so far. Putting off the tour for another week might result in a better vantage anyway as the most colourful things to see right now are the vibrant red berries on the mountain ash trees.

Travelling Highway 17 North in the autumn is usually a delight. So many folks from around the world love to make that lakeside drive with deep blues and whites on one side and brilliant flashes of orange, red and yellow on the other. When I read about Bob MacDonald and Lloyd McLean attempting this stretch of the highway on their Cross Canada trip on a recumbent bike, I hoped for fine fall weather for them, free of heavy rains and heavy traffic. A few kilometres north of Sault Ste Marie we saw them riding their bicycle, the only one of its kind in Canada. As they headed up a small hill, with the two riders back to back, I became interested in their story of the one blind man facing backwards and the seeing eyed person facing front.

 I didn't get to talk to them but I did learn something interesting when I discovered the name of their bike - the Altena Janus, from Holland. Janus was an ancient Roman god with two heads. His faces adorned many coins. His personage represents beginnings, gates, doorways, travels, time, war and peace, future and past. Wearing an image of Janus as a charm was, and is, the choice of many. A Janus bracelet became popular after Angelina Jolie wore one in the 2010 movie, The Tourist, and declared that it was a gift from her mother who wanted Jolie to know that everyone has two faces and to accept and to love them as they are.

That could apply to Mother Nature too. We won’t really know what this season will deliver but we can keep looking both ways before we cross the stream. Or just flip a coin and hope for the best.

Gold Pattern

November 2011 Writing 

     Cold facts are easy to find. Thousands throng to the Grey Cup Parade. Millions seek Tahrir Square. Seven billion and counting.

     There are numbers everywhere in our environment. Scores are regular mantras, especially now that number 87 has glided onto the ice.  And then there’s the ½ price realm. Or we count how many days till the big one.

     But where does all this numeralia come from? Since we could scratch on cave walls we’ve been keeping track of things and events. But there’s a great leap from a line in the sand to the mathematical equation. I began my search and after a little visit to Google the Great, I found a math man of the millennium.

     For almost 800 years folks have called Fibonacci the "greatest European mathematician of the middle ages." Fibonacci’s full Italian name was Leonardo Pisano, indicating that he was born in Pisa. He called himself Fibonacci which was short for Filius Bonacci, "son of Bonacci", which was his father's name.

     Fibonacci grew up in the North African town of Bugia and travelled around the Mediterranean where he learned the Hindu-Arabic system of arithmetic. He was one of the first to introduce this numbering system into Europe.  Using the base of ten digits, a decimal point and a symbol for zero, it is the same system we use today. His 1202 book on the decimal system, Liber abbaci, details all those rules for adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing.

     Fibonacci was born in 1175 and lived until the 1240's. Today one can see a statue of him at the Leaning Tower end of the cemetery next to the Cathedral in Pisa.  Fibonacci discovered a unique phenomenon. He was trying to solve a theoretical problem about the growth of a rabbit population. He arranged a sequence wherein each number (rabbit) was the sum (offspring) of the previous two. This pattern became the Fibonacci series: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610, 987, 1597, 2584, 4181 and so on. Then he calculated the ratio between the numbers. Since this turned out to be the same answer each time, mathematicians called it the golden ratio. It exists everywhere. For every ¼ turn, a natural spiral widens by a factor of this golden ratio. We can see it in sunflowers, a single cell, a beehive, a grain of wheat or the scales on a pineapple. How about a galaxy? Artists, musicians and philosophers also adhere to the mathematical axiom. Some even claim parallels to the stock market!

     Looking for Fibonacci sequences in nature can refresh a late fall hike. Those brown crinkly ferns waiting for the weight of the snow, the swirls in the sand after storm wave patterns leave their mark or the twists in old cedars as they reach for the light could all fall under the influence of Fibonacci’s find.

     One element that I do know will adhere to the golden ratio is the cone of the spruce, balsam and pine trees. And this year there are THOUSANDS of them. Too many to resist, we’ve been adding them to our basket of seasonal greenery. When they fall from the tree, the cones are sticky and tight. But after a few days they widen into their fragile, spiralled selves. We like to admire their possibilities. Fibonacci’s golden ratio exists in their curly shape but the real glow is in their holiday shine.

   As we move towards this month of lights within the darkness, the alchemy of numbers is tempting. Adding, subtracting, multiplying then dividing is a logical diversion considering how math seems to rule the world. But we’ve got to be careful. There could be traps. Unless you’re listening to “Comfortably Numb”, you don’t want to get caught up by the Numb Brrs. 

Bathtub, Beach and Bocce Balls

     Some people say Lake Superior is a fountain of youth. The lake awakens creativity. The light acknowledges forgotten corners. A walk to the shore makes the world appear fresh.

     Every time our family visits this part of Lake Superior we laugh, make up plays, tell stories, look at the lake and, of course, trek to the beach. One annual pilgrimage is the journey to the Sand River beach which also is the portal to one of Superior’s finest treasure houses—Bathtub Island. I have written about Bathtub Island many times before but, since it renews each year, I must write about it again.

     For our trip there, we load up our bags and packs with blankets, towels, sandwiches and various versions of toys and games. Small purple and yellow plastic pails for building sand castles, a set of bocce balls, big and little Frisbees and a nerf football are part of the paraphernalia which we haul along the sandy pathway down the dunes and along the beach until we get to our chosen spot.      This year the wind was cool, so after dragging over extra logs to sit on, we erected a wind break with blankets draped over driftwood walls. But we needed some ties to attach the blanket to the driftwood. The island gods must have heard us talking because one of us went swimming and discovered a bundle of short blue ropes in the water!

     Once we had our space figured out, each one of us established his/her own way on the beach. Bocce balls clunked together and debate ensued as to whose ball was closest to the bellini. Little fingers dug deep holes in the sand and the fire keeper kept flames going so smoke didn’t fill the eyes of the person who was sitting downwind of the pit. Then the food came out and we tried to keep sand out of the sandwiches. There were races up and down the water’s edge but all the while that glorious place offshore beckoned.

     There is something magical about Bathtub Island as hundreds of people now know. At one time, about 20 years ago, the tiny rock and three treed place felt the feet of few folks. Today streams of pilgrims venture to its shore and become renewed. In the middle of the island is a shallow sandy pool where young children can splash to contentment while adults can dive off the far side into crystal clear freezing water. The day we were there a couple of brave souls swam to the large whale-like rock off the west side of the island, but most ran around to enjoy the expansive view from all sides. And those who couldn’t stand the cold 50 meter wade to the island stayed on the shore and took it all in with a smile and awe.

     The island is a funny place. It reminds you of being on another planet, of being removed from stresses of life and organized leisure. Yet the rocky outcrop is so small and so close to the shore. Perhaps because the island is devoid of colourful plastic (no one takes or needs a toy out there) or maybe it is the challenge of the cold, suck- in- your- stomach walk out there that creates the special feeling. However, there’s one thing with no debate. Bathtub Island is a magnet. Add to that the presence of the children, with their laughter and sheer joy as they make their long run down the beach and the spell is cast. So thanks Kids for making us feel like kids again.

FogBall Biters

     The battle of the bugs is on. Blackflies and mosquitoes are here and so far they are calling the shots. Anyone who spends anytime camping or gardening knows all about it. Those wee beasties that love to crawl into your hair at the back of your neck and leave nice bloody, bumps are having a grand old time.

     Singing Wade Hemsworth’s 1949 Blackfly Song might help, but Buffy Saint Marie’s cover of Neil Young’s, Helpless, might be more appropriate. Many of us could be feeling quite helpless against the mosquitoes right now.
     And no wonder-- mosquitoes are formidable! They’ve been around for about 200 million years. And have diversified into 3,000 species. They’ve adapted to climates from the arctic to the equator. They know how to find blood everywhere they go, injecting an irritating chemical that stops clotting and also reduces the pain of the bite. When a mosquito senses carbon dioxide they know that a victim is near; so as long as we are breathing, we’re a target. Same with other animals, for some mosquitoes would rather pick on dogs, frogs, horses, cattle or birds.
     These stinging, minute zombies of the animal kingdom do not feed on our blood; they use it as protein in their egg development. For sheer energy, mosquito adults rely on flower nectar, juices and decaying matter. And they need a lot. A mosquito's wings beat 300-600 times per second! But their wings are not built for speed. They are designed for dodge and dive manoeuvres. That’s why mosquitoes are so difficult to nab with your bare hands, unless of course they are loaded down with a cargo of blood. Take heart. A mosquito has an average life span of a couple of weeks. Blackflies, that won’t bite you indoors, stick around for a similar amount of time.
     So what can we do about those whining peskies that disturb sleep and disrupt the joy of the outdoor experience? There are stinky DEET creams and sprays, citronella candles if you sit close enough to them or smudge fires if you want to handle the smoke. Or there’s another possible solution, a homeopathic preparation called Mozi-Q. I called the woman who came up with the idea for this alternative form of anti-bug therapy.
     Erin Bosch works at Xerion Dispensary, a homeopathic formulation and manufacturing company in Calgary. Between chats about the flood devastation and the terrific response of Calgarians as they helped each other, Bosch explained that she found a reference to the Delphinium flower in an old herbal book. She read that the ancient Greeks noticed that insects avoided the flower. With further research, she learned that the Delphinium’s insect deterrent was staphysagria. In essence, when you take Mozi-Q, you become a giant Delphinium and bugs either stay away or as Bosch says, “If you get a bite, you heal in half the time.”
     I asked Bosch about the origin of the name of the product. She said that she first heard the word while sitting in an outdoor cafe in Tuscany. The mosquitoes were quite bothersome. Another woman was there also, a visitor from Leeds, England. She started complaining about what she called -- mossies. Hence the name Mozi-Q came into Bosch’s imagination. (BTW, I’ve clapped away at least a dozen mossies as I’m writing this.)
     Unless you are lucky enough to be living amongst the dragonflies, which eat hundreds of mosquitoes a day, the bugs can be the plague of the season. But we don’t want to let that keep us away from the beauty of summer. We have to be able to enjoy the rose blossoms, the long sweet evenings and the birds’ early dawn chorus. There is so much to appreciate. Just tuck pajama bottoms into socks, hide hands in the sleeves of a hoodie and bring that cup of joe outside in the morning. Or bugnet up and take in that evening stroll.
     The other night, an hour or so before the sun left on its rounds, I sat by a calm Lake Superior. A blanket of clouds and fog was smoothing out the horizon line. Everything was a deep blue grey, except for a shimmering island of light that had escaped down through a hole in the clouds. If I had shunned the flies I never would have been able to enjoy the skies.
     Yes, I do love this time of year. But I have to admit that I am looking forward to the end of our summer’s World War ZZZZZZZ.

Summer Shoreline Videos 2013

Fog & Chickadee

Fog Swallows Point

3 Min Sunset

Loon 

Short Sunset

Throwing Pebbles

A rock can be anybody’s best friend.

Some pals have benefits. They can warm the heart and even nestle in your pocket. A rock can be anybody’s best friend. And at this time of year they are great eye candies. Slushy rolling ice packs have scrubbed off their algae coats.

Last week we went for a paddle down the shore to check out the fresh look of the rocks. Glistening boulders decorated the lake’s underwater garden. They shimmered in the sunlight and teased my swimmer’s soul. We landed on a pebble beach and amongst the grey and pink granite I spotted a large piece of smoothed, almost heart-shaped red sandstone. It had broken off from one of the deep layers beneath the lake and after millennia of wave washing and rock bashing, it now ended up in my hands.

 Lake Superior sandstone is a whole chapter in some geologists’ playbook. The stories within its formation can lay out a significant history of the formation of the planet. And the coarse rock is also a huge part of our local story. The sandstone under Sault Ste. Marie stretches from the Keewenaw to Manitoulin Island and today is known as the Jacobsville formation.

How the name came about is interesting enough. In the beginning, folks referred to it as Lake Superior Sandstone. Henry Bayfield mentioned it in his travels in the 1820s, as did Henry Schoolcraft of the same era. Then, in 1861, George Craig, son of an English quarry operator, decided to capitalize on the sheer red sandstone cliffs of the Keewenaw shore. He began the first quarry about a mile inland. The little town of Craig sprang up and prospered until 1883, when another man, John Henry Jacobs, began to quarry the sandstone by the mega ton closer to the shore. His town of Jacobsville popped onto the map and by 1900 a population of about 750 people lived there. The town of Craig shrank and its post office closed in 1896. The name   Jacobsville stuck to the stone. From about 1870 until the First World War, Jacobsville Sandstone became a hot commodity. Everyone wanted to build with it and shipload after shipload left the quarries (there were a total of 32 quarries in Michigan).

There is a cool Youtube video of a ship load of sandstone that never made it to its destination.  The C.H. Johnston was a schooner that, during the storm of September 23, 1895, sank in Lake Michigan, just west of St Ignace by St Helena Island. Loaded with car sized blocks of sandstone from the quarry at Jacobsville, the ship was on its way to Chicago where masons waited to carve up the stone to build a new bank. But the storm tore away the C.H.Johnston anchor chain and the cargo ended up in shallow water just off shore. Today the Johnston is a popular dive site. To see some of the underwater sandstone blocks and the boat’s broken keel check out C.H.Johnston schooner shipwreck at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hVYuCx6D2Y

The amount of buildings that owe their life to Jacobsville Sandstone is astounding. The rock is strong, durable and resists the devastation of the freeze/thaw cycle. Plus, the pleasing material allowed stone masons to put love into their creations. The castle-like structures were works of art, such as the original Waldorf Astoria Hotel which was later torn down to erect the Empire State Building.

But people in Algoma don’t have to go to New York to see the fine workmanship that sandstone produces. Many such buildings grace the streets of Sault Ste Marie. Most of the local sandstone construction came after the 1895 opening of the mile-long, world famous Sault canal.

The other day we were cruising by the Sault canal and the old paper mill site. I was curious to see what was happening there as I have fond memories of the office building where my father Gordon worked from 1942 to 1975. 

The sandstone structures almost shimmered, almost seemed magical. The joy of the moment continued a few minutes later as we journeyed to where the canal meets the flows from Lake Superior. We spied two geese that were walking their three goslings to the water; for a second they were impervious to our presence. The creatures tiptoed beside the long stretch of the canal’s sandstone. The prehistoric look of the long necked birds watching over their soft, downy young brought the story of the sandstone back into focus. Almost a billion years ago, delicate grains of quartz and feldspar hardened together under the weight of water and rock. Today this ancient stone shows off its crystal light in churches, offices and canal walls. What a delight and what a benefit for those who keep romancing the rock.

Getting Grounded Spacearm

Getting grounded can be tough. The job is even harder when a ton of weight lets go. There is a tendency to stay afloat.
In the third week of April, Ward and I lifted off the ground. We travelled to visit family (hence the long time between my musings and postings). We left in a blizzard and flew to the east coast where grass was already green. There was garden planting, shore walks to Peggy’s Cove and chowder by an inlet lined with colourful houses and boats by the docks. Then we flew to Toronto. We strolled amongst the fluffy pink and white cherry blossoms of the Japanese Somei-Yoshino Cherry Trees in High Park. (quite the opposite of fluffy white snowflakes). The cherry blossoms represent the renewal, strength and delicateness of life. The citizens of Tokyo donated the trees in 1959 as a thank you to Toronto for helping to relocate Japanese people after the Second World War.
Then on Music Monday, May 6th, we left Toronto. We found ourselves rising above Billy Bishop airport at the exact hour that 600,000 school children from across Canada sang Is Somebody Singing with astronaut Chris Hadfield live from the space station. On the plane I mouthed the words along with them, enjoying the moment of communal voice as I headed home.
Now Hadfield too is back home, but he has a much bigger adjustment than we pilgrims have as we try to shed the skin of winter. He has the loss of real weightlessness to deal with. Returning to an atmosphere with gravity, he even struggles with the weight of his lips and tongue. But that hasn’t stopped him from making great comments. I smiled when he said that he took as much pride in building a dock with his buddy as he did in working with the Canadarm!
While building docks is a common Victoria Day weekend project, I enjoyed a more leisurely way of spending the holiday. May 2four always has been one of my favourite times of year. You can hear a collective sigh across the country as people make preparations for the long weekend. Folks acknowledge the urge to seek the outdoors. Tents and bicycles and RVs find life. Marshmallows or a beer by a campfire, staring at a sunset or catching a fine fish power the pedals to a getaway spot. Ahhhh Canada, spring is upon us.
On the sunny Saturday afternoon, before the soggy Sunday and Monday mornings when thunder bellowed in this new season and rain drummed on the roof ( bravo to all tenters that survived the downpours), I took a few hours to walk the beach at Agawa Bay. Lake Superior Park had opened its gates for another camping season. Some hikers were rambling through the park’s interior trails but I had chosen to stick to the shore. Along the way I spied some of last year’s earthstars. These intriguing life forms, about the size of the end of your thumb, are related to the puffball or “stomach” family of fungi. The old earthstars resemble curled up flowers or opened stars. When early peoples saw them, they mythed that earthstars were the remains of stars from the heavens.
Theose I spotted had grown under the pines at the top of the beach last year. They have a fascinating life cycle. In June, the young earthstars’ onion shaped sacs are filled with spores. Three layers of skin or peridium allow the earthstars to do an amazing feat. When it rains, two layers of the skin split and uncurl to form arms which make a star shape. The arms raise the sac higher up in the air and it gets ready to release the spores. Sometimes the arms lift the plant so high that they force the earthstar off the ground and away from the root of the parent body. Even they have troubles staying grounded.
I held the brittle, curled earthstar in my hand for a moment and then continued on. The lake was a mirror with just a few wrinkles teasing up the surface. There were no bugs and the warm sand was perfect for barefoot walking. The winter fell off my feet as toes squished between tiny shimmering quartz pebbles. I took in all the driftwood sculptures and listened to the orchestral whispers from the lake. The beach sighed. It was fresh from the weight of winter. The promise of summer had never really left.
The walk showed me something. Getting grounded isn't so hard after all. It can be as simple as getting beached.

A manual would be handy

     A manual would be handy. Or a binder with glossy photos. How about an App? There must be some way of figuring out what’s going on with the weather. It still feels like a fridge outside.    

In the middle of this cold wet spring we had to get close and personal with the other type of fridge – the real one that keeps milk and veggies fresh. We had to buy a new one, even though a shiny barbeque is a more seasonal purchase. However, it might be a while before we can spend sunny days cooking outside.      

We’re still waiting for the snow to leave the grass. And winter boots still are permanent attachments on our feet. Even Lake Superior is trying to work it out.  Low water levels are teasing the imagination as well as the dock builders. Where has all the water gone? There’s more and more exposed beach and boulders. I can walk on sand that is supposed to be under water and sit on rock that is more used to the weight of waves. Ice, quite reluctant to let go, still grasps part of the shoreline. The inland lakes are buried under white sheets, waiting for the big melt, as are the eager fishermen. However, patience will win out. The melt will come. Ice has left most of the rivers. The Sand and Agawa Rivers are swollen with frothy currents that will join with those of the lake. The lake currents are of a different variety again. Those on Lake Superior follow a predictable path, one that boatmen and scientists have been charting for decades and decades. Their maps show surface waters running in a counter clockwise direction.      

The currents make a slow arc up from Whitefish Bay and pick up speed as they approach the far north shore. The fastest surface currents, sometimes reaching speeds of 60 cm a second, are in the middle of the lake and flow towards the nose of the wolf-head shaped lake. At the same time as we watch our spring melt, there is another flow, much further away, to keep an eye on. The circulation of the water in the distant Atlantic Ocean can shape the weather outside our own doors. When warm surface water, such as the Gulfstream, travels as a current from the equator, it becomes cooler and denser. The current then acts as a conveyor belt, transporting the warm surface water toward the Poles and then returning to the Equator with cold, deep water. But excessive amounts of freshwater dumped into the North Atlantic from melting could alter the density of the seawater.      

The pooling and release of glacial meltwater, the sudden collapse of an ice shelf or the lubrication of a glacier's base through repeated melting could slow down the flow of the North Atlantic Ocean current. Some scientists think that it would take about two centuries for freshwater runoff to bring the North Atlantic conveyor belt to a standstill.     

Another theory floating around concerns the lack of sunspot activity. The sun’s influence on the earth’s climate can be measured by looking at previous data. Comparing these observations gives an interesting picture. Through the use of hindcasting (using information from past events), it is possible to see how carbon build-up in tree rings coincides with expanding and receding glaciers and sunspot activity.    

 In other words, fewer sunspots mean less tree growth and less ice melting. Could this be why we are so cold right now? Did the conveyor belt of warm air take an early dive? Did it head back south after it hit the cold end of the pool? Is the sun’s retreat from activity cooling off the earth? We will have to wait for future hindcasts to know those answers. Forecasters aren’t infallible. They have theories but no absolute truths. There is no perfect manual for the weather.     

But our fridge manual did offer some comedic relief from the cold. As we read over the “how tos”, we came to a section that gave us both a laugh. The manual writers must have had a hilarious time putting those notes together. They described in great detail all the noises that one can expect from a fridge. Pulsating, whirring, popping, rattling, banging and hissing are part of the repertoire, as are creaking, cracking, buzzing, gurgling and sizzling.      

The best was Ker-plunk!     

That’s probably what some folks feel like doing right now. And that’s ok. Not to worry. The manual says that’s a normal part of the operation.    

 

April Eiffel Drip Drop

True to the old expression, the beginning of April has been quite the joke. And trying to determine what’s real has been somewhat of a test. Are you beginning to feel like we’ve been fooled?

Wind and cold tricksters might laugh at spring, but there are other places we can find a smile. The two cuddly panda bears that arrived in Canada to live, and hopefully raise a family for 10 years, may give some people the warm fuzzies. Chewing on bamboo in China one day, landing in a Canadian zoo the next - those bears must be wondering if someone played a trick on them.

Aside from April Fool’s jokes, it really is difficult to believe some of what the world is telling us these days. I read a story about Xeroxed cities that I thought must be a joke. However the remarkable stories are true. Architects and builders in China are creating copies of American and European towns and cities complete with exact replicas of monuments and buildings. Places like Hangzhou, Shanghai and Beijing have neighbourhoods resembling those in Venice, Paris or London. The mind boggling projects also include a 108 m Eiffel tower, about 200 m shorter than the original.

There’s a British Town Dorchester, a mini version of Barcelona and a complete rendition of the Unesco World Heritage village of Hallstatt, Austria. And by 2019 in Tianjin, Northern China, on the site of a 15^th century fishing village, a re-created Manhattan, with Rockefeller and Lincoln centres standing in front of  a Hudson River, will become one of the largest financial complexes in the world. Whew. The story had me at the Eiffel tower replica.

Such architectural plagiarism makes me wonder about our outdoor environments even more. True, rivers and lakes can be created, but I don’t think Lake Superior is within man’s copy and paste menu. And it has to be almost impossible to clone a natural forest.

The Algoma forests, while not endowed with the huge heights of the Eiffel, do have pines and maples that tower. These past few weeks we’ve been enjoying the forest more than usual as we are making maple syrup. The maple trees grow away from the shore of the lake, higher up along the ridges in the hills. This year’s exceptional amount of snow pack makes the 15 minute trek along the trails a good dose of medicine! Our own sap gets moving before we gather what the trees offer. The best time to head up is early morning when the trail is hard packed. The shadowed stroll around the twists and turns of the lower trail is a meander on a frozen white boardwalk. Climb the hills into the sunshine and sparkles off the snow are a field of fairy dust. Get to the top and the work begins.

We tapped a few trees on March 9 in eager anticipation, checking each tree for last year’s hole and choosing a new spot to drill. (The rough heavy bark can make previous wounds almost invisible.) I thanked each tree along the way. We attached the metal pail to the spile and the first clear sweet drops slipped out of the tree.  Maybe Spring will be here soon we thought. Huh! Winter said “No!” The taps froze and so did all that sweetness in the bottom of buckets. Chopping frozen sap became a new experience.

But sunshine prevailed and a couple of warm days gave us what we were waiting for - a day in the sugar bush to cook up some syrup. We lit the fire and gathered sap. The deep magnetic blue of Lake Superior shone through the trees and waves swooshed on a cobble beach down in the distance.

The trails from tree to tree became soft and snowshoes made mush out of the hardpack. Without snowshoes, feet and legs would have ended up knee-to-thigh deep in a sudden hole beside a sloshed pail. With care, it didn’t take long to bring the silvery liquid to the fire.

Boiling down sap to syrup is a beautiful alchemy. Steam rises from the cooking pots. Woodpeckers rat-a-tat their echoes through the bush. Warm sun heals a cold face. And the rhythm of sap droplets into buckets reveals the heartbeat from awakening trees.

By late afternoon we have a couple of litres of syrup to carry down the hill. The sun is lowering into the west. The trail is soft; our legs are tired. But we are wearing a smile.

And even though April might be the fool’s month, this is no fool’s gold. For a day in the sugar bush is the real thing indeed.