Return to Trail Pond

I just posted about an experience I had on Trail Pond in 2007. I decided to return to the lake on July 21st 2013 having found last year that the lake was sequestered behind a logging company gate. I bought a new canoe cart to assist in the effort, since the lake is about a kilometer inside the gate -- too far for me to comfortably carry my canoe.

New Canoe Cart

The walk in was uneventful, despite the huge number of bear turds freshly studded with road gravel, and the  eerie quiet that accompanies the heat of mid day.

The trail to the water's edge was completely grown over. Small firs had grown larger and one small tree had fallen across the trail. But once I negotiated my way through the bracken fern, raspberry, and salal, and climbed over the fallen tree, I found the shoreline and the old log where I used to put in when I first started visiting this lake in 2007.

These two shots are from slightly different angles, but you can see common markers in the snags and log. The water is higher by more than a foot and the young fir on the left was not even visible in 2007.

It took me a few minutes to collapse my cart and stow it in my canoe, and I confess I paused a moment to take in the pond in all it's summer glory. I don't think I have been on the pond at this time of year before and the verdant lushness was impressive.

 After the dusty walk and effort to make my way through the underbrush, I was happy to get out on the pond where a nice breeze cooled me down, especially when I was across the lake and into the shade on the far side. I made the following video after exploring the shoreline for about an hour.

Here are a few of my favorite photos from this trip. For more, see my Trail Pond set on Flickr.

I was delighted to find I could paddle into areas of the wetland that had previously been blocked by sticks. Here is an image from 2007:

In 2013 I was able to paddle past this point right down to where the beavers had been busy.

Looking towards the beaver dam from the place I used to have to turn around.

The dam itself was impressive. I estimated a 4 or 5 foot drop on the downstream side.

A Healthy Beaver Dam

Looking downstream from the dam revealed a lush outflow, demonstrating the value of beavers in maintaining and improving wetlands.

Looking Downstream from the Beaver Dam

With my water bottle empty I decided to pack up and head home, stopping to enjoy one last look back before heading to Tim Hortons for an Ice Cappachino with an espresso shot!

A Note about logging and pretension. 

Readers of this blog have sometimes criticized me for being pretentious when I express my sadness over the ugliness logging creates beside treasures like Trail Pond. While I do mourn the loss of beauty often in my writing, I am careful to balance it with an appreciation of logging as a mainstay of the BC economy and I do value being able to use logging company and forestry roads to access these locations.

I have commented lately to family and friends that cuts are much less ugly than in years past. This is due in part to the practice of creating smaller cuts, spread out over the whole island, rather than large clear cuts as was the practice before. For example, only one hillside was logged here at Trail Pond and it is actually not ugly at all. The presence of a gate, which appears to be locked indefinitely, seems also to have kept the yahoos out. I didn't see any beer cans or other litter. No torn up ground, burned logs, discarded sleeping bags, or other evidence of human impact. It was, I have to say, a welcomed surprise. While visiting this place in the last few years I have met bicyclists, hikers, and one man riding an impressive and beautiful horse. It seems to me that all such uses place a very light load on the road and land; and the gate's strategic location has also kept ATVs out, which adds to the quiet and tranquility of the location. Now before all the ATVers start up, I'm not opposed to the responsible use of quads but have seen some ugly scars created by quads on hillsides and in forests. Worse that any skidder now in use!

I know I am uncomfortably sentimental for many when I write and talk about these beautiful places, but I am unapologetic. Beautiful natural settings and tranquility seem to be diminishing in our world. I see houses being built and "no trespassing" signs going up, where previously the wider public enjoyed the views and scenery. I love these places and want to see them respected and preserved so that future generations can have the same experiences we who now visit them have. I hope trail pond continues to be a haven for turtles, beavers, and the odd ducks like me.

The Secret Lake the Faller Showed Me

Logged Area Surrounding Black Lake

I have known a few fallers.  As a boy, a timber faller, his dented orange hard hat and red checked jacket, talked to my father at the truck window about the way the earth thumps when the big trunks land. They were big trunks in those days. I watched the man step off the road, over logs, up the bank. His friendly wave before picking up his saw.  The tattered ends of his jeans lifting and dropping on his high shafted boots as he stepped over debris and slash. Dad started the truck, and we headed on to the fishing hole.  I turned in my seat to watch one of the trees at the edge of the cut fall down hill. The springiness of it as it landed.

A faller, his nostrils full of wood dust and the smell of chain oil, feels the power of internal combustion attached to a flying chain of blades, the challenge and exhilaration of dropping large pillars of carbon, tons of wood - the neck stretching openness in the canopy for the blue sky  to step around in fractals between the remaining treetops.

Plug for the gender mold. The archetypal-larger-than-life-macho-logger.  Steel toed boots, the heavy fabric of faller chaps stained with oil, the saw jamming fabric shirt brown with sweat and dirt, the constant current of danger like an eel in a river, the constant numbness in the arms from vibration, the finger tips buzzing.


After the saw is snuffed into silence, after the foam removed from ears, after the sky begins sucking away as much heat as the sun brings in, now low to the horizon - then he stops and ponders the beauty of the place, the funny way the cut opens the forest like an ancient story opens a deepness in the soul. The sweet smell of cut logs mixed with the minty crackle of gum. Good to end a day alive, and then go for a beer with the others in the warm loud span of laughter and forgetting.

A Fire Warden I met on a dusty logging road this summer on the hottest day of the year showed me a lake I could paddle on. His lake. One of his secret spots. He found it years ago when he was a faller. We sat in our vehicles, window to window talking about the changes in the forests - small contractors, more fatalities, a changing way of life. Companies from China securing fibre rights, converting mills to specialty products. And then, he said, he was married to a woman who was Chinese.

The walk to the lake was worth it, he told me, because he had saved a swath of old growth trees. The hillsides around the lake were covered in uniform carpet of new growth as I looked around after easing the canoe into the water from my shoulder.

The same familiar shortness of young trees. But along the edge of the water on one half of the lake a fringe of large trees. The faller's gift. He had asked the timber boss if they could be saved. The saws were already wining their way down the hill overlooking the lake, the trucks hauling away the big cellulose tubes. The boss said no, then a few days later, called back, "OK," he said, "The rest won't be cut." Sort of a miracle.

I paddled and admired the stand of old growth. At the south end of the lake, I tied the boat and walked in the shallow water.

The air was hazy with smoke from distant forest fires. The wind had been blowing earlier but had dropped. The shade of the massive trees seemed to provide an oasis from the heat and smoke.  The pattern of wave splash along the rocks.

They are rugged. They curse and spit and compete and joke. The rough company of men.  The guys who gave me a ride when I locked my keys in my Tracker a few years ago looked at me reluctantly from their Silverado LT 4X4. Working hard not to call me an idiot to my face. In the woods, regardless of how stupid someone is, you help him out.

Almost all the lakes I wish were protected, I accessed from the edge of a logging road. The patchwork quilt of cuts visible from space, and me disappearing like the speckles on a trout's back after you let it go.

on the hillside
a logger steps from log to log
hot saw swinging