The Country Mice

Once upon a time, there was house.

Behind the house there was a hill.

A big, big hill that called, “Climb me!” to the unwary hikers.

The hill promised the hikers great views by day…

Or by night.

And so the hikers climbed.

Up, up, up they climbed, higher and higher with every step.

And then they remembered — what goes up must come down.

And so, down…

… down…

… down the hill came the hikers.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The end.

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They made it!

The school’s head, who accompanied the hikers on their three-day extravaganza to Alice Lake and environs, passed on this pic yesterday, via cellphone technology.

It should be noted that none of the campers *know* — until they read this post, of course — that cellular and satellite phones were taken along on the journey. Adds to the sense of interdependency: My safety relies upon my keeping *you* safe.

Homeboy’s return tonight will be marked by much jubilation and a hot soapy shower!

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A beautiful start to an era-altering day.

Homeboy’s new school has taken my child and promised to return me a man.

Well, not quite so draconian but after three days away from his maman et famille I’ve little doubt he’ll come back wiser, stronger, braver.

To the north of Vancouver, on the way to Whistler, and not far from where we live, is a camping area well known to the west coast called Garibaldi. Popular with the Vibram-soled crowd, Garibaldi loops through the rocky crags with hiking trails, lakes, rocky cliffs and panoramic views.

A stellar place to assemble the population of an entire school, set them up in tents, immerse them in the outdoors thru hiking and swimming in glacial lakes, and live the school motto: Wisdom. Courage. Integrity.

The students range from Grades 6 to 9 and the demands on each group increase with their sophistication.

The Grade 6/7s will hike on the flats, the 8s around a substantial lake  and the 9s will tackle the peak of the mighty Black Tusk, weather permitting.

For now they’ve just gathered outside the island’s library, waiting for the arrival of the ferry.

They are pumped. My boy is guardedly pumped. First serious trip from home and with folks he’s known for less than a week.

Remember the school motto?

Courage.

He’s got it in spades.

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In a surprisingly sane and sage cost-savings venture, the local island school has cancelled school bus pick-ups one day a week.

That means Fridays now require that island children get to school on their own steam — er, their own two feet.

The alternate option would have been to cancel one route pick-up entirely — can’t you just hear the outcry reverberating across the Rockies? — or have everyone share the drama and wend one’s way to school independently.

Bowen is a small island, a Malta-sized 20 square miles at last count, interwoven with regional parks and wooded trails.

Fairly decent in the walk-to-school department.

We parked our vehicle on the side of the road, about two kilometres from home, and meandered slack-jawed through old-growth greenery.

There’s a fish hatchery right next to the recycling depot across the road from the solitary gas station (closed Sundays, full-serve, $.10 surcharge per litre).

And after 20 minutes our goal comes into view, for the Princess at least. Homeboy must forge a few other streams and forest trails before he gets to his institute of higher learning.

A refreshing start to the day.

Note to self: Don’t forget to pick them up.

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Meet Flash.

Flash’s name is on the land titles certificate I signed in order to purchase this spot of rocky terrain. He owns this place.

Just kidding — but it might as well be true. You can see here how he’s fluffed himself for the photo-op. It’s important to maintain a good image.

The previous owners of this house on the hill gave Flash his appellation based on his lineage as he’s the third of a long line of Steller’s Jays to take charge of the inhabitants who’ve erected a home in his forest.

Two generations before Flash there was Cheeky. Then came Son of Cheeky.

You laugh — but this was serious stuff to the folks who lived in this house. And they were very concerned about whether Flash & Crew would be cared for after their departure.

Cat? We don’t have a cat.

Kids, the cat’s not coming.

At any rate, Flash has trained us well. Mornings begin with his tap-tapping on the window, whereupon someone dashes to the door and proffers a peanut or two.

On days when one of his siblings shows up we have a party.

It’s more like a rumble. Words fly and based on the timbre, they ain’t in the OED.

Word of the peanut parties have gone around the island, clearly, as Flash has now been joined by a legion of others, seven at last count.

A bushel bag of peanuts now sits in the garage.

Easy to say who’s trained whom.

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You know that office supply store commercial where the happy dad pirouettes, swirls and waltzes his way down the aisles, with the ebullient Andy Williams crooning in the background, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

I’ll spare you the details but — that ain’t me.

Homeboy starts at a new school today, new books, new friends, new duds.

The soul of a prep-schooler dwells deep in his heart and when university days beckon I’ve little doubt he’ll check for dress code on the application form.

The new school demands an extremely lax variation on its students’ sartorial symmetry.

And to provide some context: The official school sport is Ultimate. That’s Ultimate Frisbee, my friends, that flat disc spun thru the air by legions of blonde Californian surfin’ dudes. The official school sport. No field hockey here. Nooooo. This is the island, mon.

A vociferous lobby for longer hair is in my future, I’m sure.

Moving right along.

So what’s exactly transpiring in these photos, you ask?

Well, with the new school year under way and the new school clothes out of the bag and on to the body, some documentation was required.

The photographic equipment was duly hauled out while the Princess determined some sort of ante-convocation ceremony was required.

His diploma (in fact, his not-so-prep school clothing order form), the requisite flower and his mortarboard. At the time of this photo she is searching for something to use as a tassel.

She really scares him, sometimes.

Mortarboard and tassel, ready to go.

But she still has another plan.

And of course, none of us ever knows where her little brain is speeding.

Wha?

Remember? she asks.

Remember how they always hold a teddy bear when they want you to smile?

Okay, now. Smile!

She really is good for the soul.

Pure clown and good for the soul.

But I still wonder where she came from.

Your children are not your children.

Kahil Gibran knew what he was talking about.

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The chickadee hath plumage of brown,

And wears on its head a black little crown,

Its song is not querulous, but fluty the note

That in liquid cadences flows from its throat.

Clad in soft downy plumage, the chickadee

Fears no cold in its nest in the hollow of tree:

And it comes to the garden to pick up the seed

The dear little children cast out for its feed.

The Little Chickadee Warbler of the Winter Woods

Isaac McLellan (1806 – 1899)

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We have a lot of birds around this place. Jays, chickadees, flickers, woodpeckers, nuthatches and grosbeaks crowd around the feeders every day.

We also have a lot of windows. Most of one wall is made of glass panels — makes for lots of natural light blasting in to the place.

Unfortunately all that transparent glass makes for illusory blue skies as far as the feathered folk are concerned.

We’ve observed a few stunned birds sitting on the deck and at those times are thankful our feline friends opted to remain on the farm and enjoy rural living in place of the coastal lifestyle.

While the Princess has commenced the Island Burial Grounds under a nearby pine tree, most of the feathered ones survive their crash landing with a few moments’ respite.

This little fellow flew off with just a headache and was shortly back at the feeder.

Regardless of the reason why, it’s a moment of magic to hold a tiny creature like this Pine Warbler.

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The last few lazy hazy days of summer are highly treasured around here. We all get a little sentimental (okay, *I* do; what about it?) with another year gone, another year older, another year closer to childhood being all over…

excuse me while I dab my eyes…

So a trip to the beach gets the excess energy out and allows us to explore our little island.

Our collection of seal vertebrae and rib bones is growing. The Princess has a little stash on the balcony outside her bedroom. Seal bones, eagle feathers, mussel and oyster shells balance atop one another in her little shrine which, I’m told, honours nature. How well she learned her lessons from her three years with Mr. Wagner!

Homeboy finds his own little stash of nature too — a long and only slightly decaying length of bull kelp.

Hey! This thing’s pretty long! And it has just the right amount of tensile strength that I should be able to commence something that will torment my tree-hugging sister!

Yeeee-hawwww! Come along, little doggie!

The little doggie has no particular bone to pick and continues her search for osteopathic specimens.

How about you, big doggie? Wanna get lassoed or whupped or slimed by my rope of oceanic vegetation?

Should have named him Errol.

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The day dawned clear and sunny and a perusal of the roof revealed — horrors! — the gutters were jam-packed with dry arbutus leaves, a result of the recent and lengthy absence of rain. To date a grand total of three millimetres — three! — of rain has sprinkled on this little isle since June. A little spooky for a temperate rainforest.

All able-bodied workers were summoned to the roof top to start scooping.

The Princess told me she’d give me $50 — one half of her life’s savings — if I’d build her a room on the roof.

The north angle of the roof collects the moss and some kicking, picking and tossing ensued. I had maternal visions of inertia taking the tossers over the gutter’s edge to lay in a crumpled heap of broken limbs and crushed foliage but *exhale* nothing of the sort transpired.

For my part, I stayed on terra firma. Had to protect my camera, after all.

Front gutters clear, Ma’am. A few peanut shells but otherwise good.

Now a little water to check the drainpipes.

I seriously do not think Homeboy *gets* that there’s no safety net below.  On the other hand, there’s always Cirque du Soleil if the first couple of career choices don’t work out.

Another high-wire potential.

Nope. He really doesn’t get it.

So now the water comes in to the final pipe, checking for clogs, waiting, waiting…

And success! A little dribbly at the start as some accumulation of muck and dried forest works its way out of the pipes but overall a successful venture on high.

And most importantly, no need for emergency medical intervention.

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