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.