Pixie Lake

The road from the main to the put-in is overgrown and has two large deep puddles. We waded in to test the depth before putting the Tracker in 4 wheel drive and fording through. At the lake edge a swarm of wasps arrived to examine the hot vehicle.

I stood back nervously but James was brave.

After a few minutes the wasps lost interest and we put out onto a strange and eerie world. the shoreline bristled with dead trees, watershield decomposed under the sun, dark deep water slid under our hulls.

We did not see any pixies, but at one point James commented that it was the sort of place you thought you might look into the water and see ghostly white faces looking back with dead eyes.

Memorable would be a word to describe the experience.

Here is a photo album of the paddle: http://www.homestead.com/rrpowell/files/PixieLake

Anutz Lake

Vancouver Island Backroad Mapbook - Map 36 D1
Atlas of Canada Link: Anutz Lake
Latitude and Longitude: 50^o 17' 59" N - 126^o 55' 0" W

Trip Date: June 21st, 2009



I arrive late Sunday afternoon, wind blowing straight at the beach, sun bleaching the view. An assortment of robins work the Thimble Berry and Pacific Ninebark bushes. No one is at the site but there are deep ATV ruts along the beach and in the middle of the field, a circle where an ATV went around and around. It feels a bit like a ghost town.

I decide to camp close behind the row of bushes that separate the beach from the campsites.
I cook dinner, read for awhile, then explore the beach to the west and discover a place where water has created a flow of limestone out from a small opening in the rock — a white tongue of stone. I climb up onto a 14 foot high rock outcropping and watch the waves, listen to the wind in the forest.
Red Paintbrush shocks from side to side in the wind. I scramble down onto some lower rocks worn by water, the waves making hollow gurgling sounds below my feet somewhere under the rock.
Then around the corner I find a sculpted stone with a hole right through the middle.
I explore the forest; find a trail that leads back to the campsites through a nice mature second growth woodland, stopping briefly to admire a patch of Pacific Lilly of the Valley.
Still no-one at the campsite when I break out of the forest into the open field. The 10,000 clusters of Pacific Ninebark blossoms bob at the margin of the meadow, Yellow Salmon Berriers, gone pink where eaten by some animal shine in the growing dark.
I photograph a Nootka Rose and examine the berries forming on a twinberry bush, the woundlike bracts somehow disquieting my mind when I look at them up close. I crane my neck to look at mares tails in the sky, listen to a bird call I don’t recognize, the sound like a child’s toy whistle, a single rising note, as if questioning, tentatively, the coming night.
I accept that the wind is not letting up tonight, return to my camp, try to read but the noseeums find me. I put on bug spray. A male grouse thumps his call, almost too low to hear, while the robins give up their evening melodies to a scattered ramble of chirps. Sky goes pink, then a few puffy clouds are left, orange around the edges.
Then the silence after climbing into my sleeping bag inside my tent. I fall asleep sometime after 10:30, wake after midnight chilled and pull on my sweater, the tips of the trees out the tent window are still against the dark grey sky. The night never gets completely dark in June. At 3:00 I wake and listen to the grouse call, It is the only sound in the darkness. At 6:00 I scramble out of the tent and walk to the beach. The sun is just lighting up the peaks of the Karmutzen Range (Nimpkish Lake was named Karutzen lake for awhile) and a mist is rising from the lake.
I hurry back, put my down vest over my wool sweater, then the PFD, pulling on my paddling boots and gortex pants. I take down my canoe, load up some food and other supplies and am on the water in a few minutes, paddling towards the western area where two creeks empty into a marshy estuary.
Fish that have been lolling at the surface break away from me in the early light and disappear amid the Lilly pads.
The current moves in swirls between the floating pads and I can see that a beaver has been at work attempting to bridge the entire estuary with a low dam. I find an opening and push through.
There turn out to be three inflows; all but one shrouded with sedges and rushes and the middle one has a curious feature. A log is wedged between the banks, forming a natural dam so that the water on the other side of the log is several feet higher than where I float in my canoe. There is a deep hollow sound of water like the sound of a bathtub filling as the water flows from beneath the log into a collection of smaller debri and I wonder how long this tiny cascade will exist. I listen to it for awhile before exploring some of the floating gardens growing on the ends of a half submerged logs. Yellow Monkey Flowers bob over the water along side Fire weed and gracefully curving sedges, each blade pointed with a shinning drop of dew.
I turn and paddle down the western shore towards the river that connects Anutz and Nimpkish Lake. Stickleback cruse in the shallow water along the river banks, a king fisher skims the surface going past fast, his flight arch taking him sharply up to light on a tree branch, scold me, then head off down river. The current picks up over the shallow bars of gravel, then deep clear pools green towards the stony bottom. Widgeon grass sways like the skirts of a Hawaiian dancer as I go around a corner and under an overhanging tree.
I pass two side channels which I know are oxbows from examining the area on Google Earth. Then the final long stretch and the narrowing just before Nimpkish Lake, where the old pilings are. I drift out into the lake on the current, paddle to shore and stroll the beach, eating a granola bar and drinking some water.

The sun crests over the mountain but only flashes briefly before disappearing behind clouds; there is a tiny riffle far out on Nimpkish Lake. I take off my down vest and drink some more water.
The paddle back upriver is slower, working only slightly harder against the current. Robins, always lots of robins, call in the salal and I turn in at the first oxbow to listen to them. There is a family of mergansers, the young fledglings lanky and shy, and as I drift towards them the hen takes flight, the ducklings disappear under the brown surface like skin divers. I turn around and head back, but some of the ducklings have surfaced behind me, lurking under the edges of Lilly Pads, and I startle them back underwater. Out on the river again I turn upstream and the hen angles in behind me to find her offspring.
I notice a beaver lodge I hadn’t seen on the way downstream. New branches are piled on one side, leaves wilting, the bone-white cuts concave and drying in the still air. As I turn the corner and make my way up the straight run to Anutz Lake a bald eagle circles above the tall pine trees that grow along the eastern shore. I suspect these trees are old; beyond the reach of loggers in the marshlands. As I stop to look at them the waves from my boat reach the shore and rebound back, so that I am rocked gently in their soundless echo.
Half way across Anutz the sun breaks out, I take a picture of the vista, with sunlight on different altitudes of land. In the middle of the lake I can not hear anything.
The green of the new sedges along the shore glows in the sun, a warmth that goes deep into the brain, gentle x-rays etching solitude in memory.

For More photos of this trip, see the gallery here: http://www.stillinthestream.com/files/AnutzLake/index.html

Hawthorn Lake

Vancouver Island Backroad Mapbook - Map 15 B6
Atlas of Canada Link: Hawthorn Lake
Latitude and Longitude: 49^o 3' 0" N - 124^o 46' 0" W

Trip Date: April 23rd, 2009



I spent the day exploring lakes along Bamfield Road. Unable to find a trail to Black Lake, I decided to head for Lizard Pond, but encountered active logging just past Hawthorn Lake. So I returned to Hawthorn and put in with fairly low expectations. I followed a pair of Barrow's Golden Eyes for several meters and was surprised when they did not fly away. As my canoe drifted sideways while I stopped paddling to raise the camera for a shot, the size of my profile suddenly registered as a threat and they took off. I later encountered more Golden Eye on the far side of the lake, and they too were slow to spook.

These are perhaps my favorite local freshwater duck -- much more impressive than the Common Goldeneye. This little sea duck is less dramatic than the Wood Duck, but more aproachable, and the startling contrast of the male's purple head with the yellow eye ring can be quite entrancing.

Shortly after that I observed numerous newts sunning at the surface of the lake, only tilting downward as I approached. A flash of orange belly as they turned to dive confirmed for me that they were Taricha granulosa, the Rough-Skinned Newt.

The Rough Skinned Newt is the only newt I have observed so far on Vancouver Island. The other common resident Aquatic Salamanders, the Northwestern Salamander, and the Long-Toed Salamander, have so far eluded me, but the Rough Skinned Newt seems to be everywhere. I have seen them in roadside ponds near Courtenay, and in McNair Lake near Campbell River. On McNair, I was fortunate to see a group of them gathered in a ball, a behavior I first read about in Corkran and Thoms' Amphibians of Oregaon, Washington, and British Columbia, the book I recommend to budding phibs, or amphibian watchers like myself.

Why

(WARNING: This post contains a discussion of Pothunting)

George Washington Sears, pen name Nessmuk, wrote a series of letters to Field and Stream Magazine from 1880 to 1885 about his solo canoe trips through the Adirondacks. The canoes he paddled were small and light because he was an older man with asthma. He went to the woods for his health, believing clean air to be a balm like no other. “Go light,” he advised, “the lighter the better, so that you have the simplest material for health, comfort, and enjoyment.”

I like George, meeting him all these years later though his stories. He was an observant person who loved remote places but did not shun people....well most people. He did shun certain types of people.

“I love a horse, a gun, a dog, a trout and a pretty girl. I hate a pothunter, a trout-liar, and a whisky-guzzling sportsman.” Sears wrote these words and others like them because he saw how men of this sort spoiled the woods, lakes, and rivers.

A pothunter is a hunter who hunts with disregard for rules and conservation and who lacks appreciation for the value of animals apart from their role as objects to kill, possess, or display. A pothunter seeks a prize to show to his friends, a trophy to give him bragging rights. Sears liked to hunt and fish, but not as a means to build his ego, not for show or prestige.

When I first came across references to him, I expected not to like him. I generally don’t like people who start movements. They are driven. Driven people make me nervous. The movement he started (solo canoeing) is sometimes twisted into pothunting of a different sort. I’m talking about outdoor types who show off their survival skills, endurance, courage, and competitive edge in order to impress or awe others.

But Nessmuk isn’t like that. He is a bit the opposite, and while he was not a saint or heroic icon, he comes close to embodying a way of being in the wild that feels right to me. In this he reminds me of my father. Like Nessmuk, my father loved fishing and hunting for their own sake, and cared little what others thought of the sport or his prowess with a gun, bow, or rod. He just liked it and when we went out together it wasn’t overly important if we arrived home empty handed. Dad didn’t brag and while he told stories of “the one that got away,” they were almost always relatively accurate. I knew they were accurate, because most of the time I had been there.

I plan to write about dad, our times together, and the values he passed on to me, but for now, I just want to be clear that what I am after, the reason I am doing this project, is to define one of many alternatives to pothunting. I’m certainly not the first to attempt such an exercise, but I do want to include my voice.

Another reason I am going is to learn to read again.

Karen Armstrong in an interview with Tapestry Producer Mary Hynes describes a time in her life when she was defeated by poor health and life circumstances and turned to the study of the great texts of world religions. Because she was no longer surrounded by noise and activity, all alone in her apartment, she was suddenly able to hear the poetry of the writers, and enter into the realities behind the words.

Much of my reading lately has become speed reading, rushing through one book or another looking for content, for a specific answer, for data, facts, information. I want more than that, I want the meditative absorption that comes from reading a book in the company of great silence.

So I will be reading Nessmuk, and other great nature writers. And I will be reading Taoist texts and maybe some other religious texts, I’m not sure yet. I want to read Ursula Goodenough’s Sacred Depths of Nature because I intuit that Ursula knows something important, something I need to know.

I also want to learn again to read nature, to “notice” it in the great Buddhist sense. This is why I paddle, why I have embarked on this experiment. The Japanese poet Basho spoke of his travels across Japan as a journey into the deep interior of his country. I will be traveling into the deep interior of this island I call my home.

Where

Vancouver Island is the biggest island on the west coast of North America. Almost twice the size of Hawaii it has an area of 32,134 sq. Km (12,408 sq. miles).

Over 700 miles of coastline, almost 400 of which face the wide open Pacific Ocean, make Vancouver Island the destination and home of open sea kayakers who love to paddle among whales, see lions, otters, and a myriad of other sea creatures. The prowess, skill, and courage displayed by those who ride the surf and ply the stormy reaches have captured the imaginations of thousands of people. Have a look at the trailer for Pacific Horizons to get some idea of what these daring folks do.

Less adventurous paddlers experience the Pacific Ocean’s beauty and grandeur by exploring its many sheltered coves, island groups, and bays. They gaze on scenic vistas at every turn.

But this 451 kilometres (282 miles) long island also contains many hundreds of lakes, some in the heart of towns and cities, others so remote that virtually no one ever visits them.

Though I am an occasional ocean paddler and love the ocean and all its wonders; my temperament, philosophy, aesthetic values, and my current life situation and interests draw me more to lakes than oceans. I will be unpacking this attraction for small waters as I go along. For now let me say that marshes, ponds, and small lakes and streams, hold subtle attractions for a paddler that are very different from the rolling waves of Vancouver Island’s rugged coast. Not better or more beautiful, but worth experiencing in their own right. This is where I will be - these next two years.

Image of Vancouver Island captured from Google Earth