Chemainus Lake

Returning from a trip to the Cowichan Valley in January for some misty morning photography, I stopped to check out Chemainus Lake. The last time I had been there was years earlier, and it had, at that time, felt sad and overused. This time, however, I found a new robust dock, excellent roadway, and fresh gravel at the put-in. I thought, "Time to bring the canoe."

So, on the last day of March, I got up early, canoe already on the roof, and head south. I arrived while it was still dark, put the canoe in the water and set out onto the little lake amid a rising mist and almost total silence.

I paddled around in the cold pre-dawn light, watching the mist swirl and listening to the birds waking up and becoming active. That time of day, on a small body of water, is perhaps the best time of all. The feeling of positive aloneness (sabi) and the feeling of connection to the natural world work to create a rich sense of contentment and hushed awe.

I drifted around, watching the sun slowly rise, painting the tree tops first, with it's golden glow, then eventually the mist, which became thicker with the change in temperature.

I surrendered to the beauty, feeling the cares of the week drifting away amid the mist. There is something about this kind of beauty, the majesty of it, the power of it, that creates an especially receptive mind. I thought about work, relationships, harmony and discord. A wetland is a place that mirrors these qualities. So much life, and with it, so much death.

I experimented with my new camera and the even newer vintage Pentax 28mm lens. It is always difficult to capture the scale of a place like this. Chemainus Lake is small, but also packed with endless views, sights, and details. There are so many nooks and gaps in a wetland and in fact this little lake has channels between the main lake and the shore, bands of water that curve around behind reed banks and a beaver store.

Then, the sun broke over the trees and the morning began in earnest. This always causes me a bit of excitement, the golden hour has begun! I race to get photos, everywhere I look a new subject, a new breath-taking image.

The first shots were of the reed banks, as the light broke across them. I paddled to two spots of the lake to get different perspectives.

As I did, the nesting geese started honking, and within minutes a flock of new geese arrived.

In the reeds, marsh wrens and song sparrows started to mill about, joined by red-wing blackbirds going from perch to perch and back again. The morning chorus, or racket, had begun.

Song Sparrow

Male Redwing Blackbird

Female Redwing Blackbird

Resident Nesting Canadian Goose

About that time, a paddling fly angler joined us on the water. I was off in a corner with my long lens, trying to get portraits of some of the smaller residents, but I snapped one of this young fellow. We humans tend to dominate the landscape, with our impressive tools, including tackle and vessel.

Young Male Human

Another angler arrived on the dock, so I headed down to the far end of the lake. Along the way I marveled at the beauty of this little spot. The shoreline from the water is truly stunning.

As more humans came onto the water the non-resident geese took flight to the air, and I retreated further into the reeds.

Canadian Geese Take Flight

My Hideout Amid the Reeds

In a shady corner I took out my other new vintage lens, the Revuenon 55mm 1.2. This bokeh master lens creates unique artistic renditions that, in some ways, capture a place better than razor sharpness ever can.

Revuenon 55mm 1.2 - #1

By that time, there were anglers arriving every few minutes. I waited against the reeds near the dock as two young fellows in kayaks, a woman in a float tube, and two older guys in a tinner made there way out. I took a photo of the men with kids on the dock. "Can I touch it?" came the call of one child as a fish was held out flopping for inspection. The curiosity and excitement in the kid's voices was a welcomed sound.

Men and Boys Enjoy the Sturdy Functional Attractive Dock

I was glad that these folks would enjoy their time, AND was also glad I was leaving. I packed up while another fellow prepared to head onto the water in a pontoon boat. I would be back to take more photos on this fantastic jewel of a lake on this special island.

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