Reflections

Enough, already!

cruise.ship.01I had a few restive nights recently, waking in the wee small hours to listen to the sound of  hard rain on the roof, shivering at the thought that somewhere, a very short distance  away – a mile or more at most,  there was a lost dog walker and her charges, soaked, chilled and huddled against the deluge. Continue reading

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Tales of the Crypt

As a newly retired guy I’ve developed a couple of  new pastimes:

1.  I  now check the obituaries every day, just to see who I know, and

2. I daydream a lot about devising a sure-fire, low risk, high return money-making scheme to supplement my meager pension. Continue reading

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When to throw in the towel

They say that those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past, and a lifetime of travel has led me to conclude that much of tourism consists of simply re-visiting the sites of those lessons. Continue reading

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November evening

NOVEMBER EVENING

The head of Burrard inlet is a lonley place on a drizzly November afternoon.The park that skirts the mud flats is deserted, as even the bredraggled dog walkers have long since sought shelter.

Standing still in the gloom, hunched against the rain, and trying to ignore the cold and the wet creeping through the soles of ones boots, you can just make them out in the last of the light – coming in low between the new high-rises that form Port Moody’s new town centre.

They come in pairs,and in small family groups, and sometimes in long noisy skeins of twenty or thirty or more, wings beating furiously , honking loudly as they inspect the emply inlet: then satisfied that no danger lurks, banking, and in unison gliding in to land.

They are Canada geese, pilgrims from the Arctic, stopping only briefly to rest and feed on their long trek south, and they come in waves, every few minutes, filling the emply inlet with noise and movement.A thousand birds? 1,500 ? impossible to say, but a remarkable sight.

Leaving the geese to settle in, numb feet find the muddy path up Noon’s creek, to the heavily padlocked hatchery. The stream below the hatchery shows signs of man’s efforts to help nature, but nature is on its own upstream. One follows a barely discernable path to a bend in the creek. There, tight against the far bank, where rushing storm waters have pushed a deposit of sand and gravel, there is a flicker of movement. Thrashing, circling, it is a solitary pair of chum salmon, completing their dance of life, alone, in the dark and drizzle of a late November evening.

Categories: Nature, Port Moody, Reflections | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

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