Pink dawn

A couple of days ago, I took the highway north to catch the sunrise over the Discovery  Passage, that narrow ribbon of salt water that separates us here on Vancouver Island from the rest of BC. 

The sky was already orange and yellow when I set out, almost an hour before actual sunrise, even a few minutes before civil dawn, defined as the moment the sun's centre lies at 6° below the horizon and its light illuminates the clouds. An iffy calculation here, since our horizon is hidden behind mountains.

The "Official" sunrise for this location, this day, was at 5:55 AM. Civil dawn was at  5:17.

Turning pink. 5:43 AM. Discovery Passage, Menzies Bay (to the left), eagle's nest. 50.11°North.

5:44, looking south from the same spot.

That eagle's nest, against the pink water. With eagle.

Three quarters of an hour later, a few kilometres farther north, the sunshine was coming down the mountain sides.

Looking northeast over McCreight Lake. 50.30°North.

And today, here at 50°N, sunrise comes at 5:58. We've lost 6 minutes of daylight in these last 3 days, 1 hour, 26 minutes since the summer solstice a month ago. Almost 7 hours yet to lose before winter.

A Skywatch post.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hace un par de dias, tomé la carretera hacia el norte para ver salir el sol sobre el Discovery  Passage(Travesía Descubrimiento), esa cinta angosta de agua salada que nos aisla aquí en la isla Vancouver del continente. 

El cielo, cuando salí, ya se pintaba de anaranjaso y amarillo, esto a casi una hora antes de la salida del sol, y unos pocos minutos antes de la hora del crepúsculo civil matutino, que se define como el momento en que el centro del disco solar queda a 6° bajo el horizonte. A estas horas su luz alumbra las nubes. Un cálculo algo difícil de hacer a simple vista aquí, donde el horizonte está escondido tras las montañas.

La hora oficial para la salida del sol en este dia y este sitio caía a las 5:55 a.m. El crepúsculo civil matutino era a las 5:17 a.m.

1. El cielo se está pintando de rosa. A las 5:43 a.m., mirando el Discovery Passage y la Bahía de Menzies (a la izquierda). Y un nido de águilas. A 50.11° de latitud.
2. Del  mismo sitio, mirando hacia el sur, a las 5:44 a.m.
3. El nido de águilas y el agua que refleja el color del cielo.
4. 45 minutos más tarde, y unos kilómetros más al norte, y el sol bajaba por las laderas de las montañas. Miramos hacia el noroeste, viendo el lago McCreight, a 50.30° de latitud.

Y hoy, aquí en el paralelo de latitud 50°N, el sol sale a las 5:58 a.m. Hemos perdido 6  minutos del  dia en estos tres dias, y una hora con  26 minutos desde solsticio de verano hace un  mes. Vamos a perder otras 7 horas todavía antes del invierno.

Un post de Skywatch.

Sunny interlude

The sun came out over Tyee Spit. I stood at the northern tip for a good while, watching seals playing in the tidal current, surfacing to roll back into the water, sometimes silently, sometimes leaping far enough out of the water to come down with a splash, once a short stone's throw from the shore where I stood. Only once did I catch a splash on camera, and this was it; halfway across the channel.

South end of Discovery Passage, looking northeast. The splashing seal is behind the kayak.

A Skywatch post.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Salió el sol. En la lengua de tierra, Tyee Spit, en el extremo al norte donde el rio entra al agua salada, me quedé un largo rato, observando las focas que jugaban en la corriente, fuerte en esos momentos con el cambio de dirección de la marea. Las focas subían a la superficie y se volvían a sumergir; a veces daban saltos al aire, cayendo con un buen chasquido acompañado de un gran salpicón de agua. Una foca saltó a escasos metros de donde yo estaba parada en la orilla del agua. Una sola vez logré capturar uno de estos saltos grandes con la cámara; y eso, bien lejos, en el centro del estrecho.

Foto: El pasaje "Discovery", mirando hacia el noreste. El salpicón que dejó la foca está atrás del kayak.

"All I ask ..."

 "... to the lonely sea and the sky ..."

The line from John Masefield's poem* was running through my head as I backed out of my driveway and aimed the car to the north. I have been too long peering at small things at close distances; today, I wanted to see water and space, even if the weather wasn't really good for walking on the shore, with a chill wind blowing alternate rain and snow. I headed north, to the hillside where last spring a large section of forest had been clearcut, exposing the channel between the islands. The lonely sea.

Menzies Bay to the left, Discovery Passage, due north and southwest.

Not much has changed since last April; some more of the trees along the shore have been cut, and the logging slash has been cleared away. A light dusting of snow covers the denuded forest floor. And there's Seymour Narrows leading off into the north with the hills of Quadra Island on the east, Ripple Rock lookout on the west. And a lone tug hauling a barge with tankers chugging its way north.

But why was one tall tree left standing? And is that a white speck on top? I zoomed in with the camera as far as it would go.

The white specs are two bald eagles. And there's a nest.

I went back to the car for the little pocket camera; it sees farther.

Two eagles and their nest.

So that was why the tree was left! Somehow, that makes me feel better about the rest of the devastation. Whoever cleared all this forest, whatever their plans for the space may be, at least they respected the eagles' prior claim.

I stood a long time on the side of the road, watching. One of the eagles left the nest and flew back and forth over the water, hunting for supper while his mate stood over the nest.

*Here's the entire poem:

Sea-Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

 

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

JOHN MASEFIELD, 1878 - 1967

A Skywatch post.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"... He de ir otra vez al mar, al mar solitario y al cielo ..."

Esta linea de un poema por John Masefield corría por mi mente mientras bajaba la entrada de mi casa y orientaba el coche hacia el norte. He pasado mucho tiempo mirando cosas pequeñitas, muy de cerca; hoy quería ver agua y distancias, aunque el dia no era propicio para caminar en la playa, con un viento helado trayendo lluvia, y a veces, nieve. Me dirigí hacia el norte, hacia el lugar donde, la primavera pasada, habían tumbado toda una sección grande de bosque, dejando a la vista el estrecho que va entre las islas. ... el mar solitario ...

Foto #1: La vista. La bahía de Menzies hacia el izquierdo, el estrecho de Seymour apuntando al norte, y al lado derecho, el pasaje hacia el sur.

No mucho ha cambiado desde abril del '22; han cortado algunos árboles en la costa, y han limpiado el terreno, quitándole los restos del bosque. Una capa ligera de nieve cubre el suelo desnudado. Y ahí se ve el estrecho yendo al norte, con los cerros de la isla Quadra al oriente, y el mirador de Ripple Rock al lado del oeste. Y un barquito remolcador llevando una barcaza llena de camiones cisterna.

Pero, ¿porqué han dejado un árbol solitario todavía en pie? Y ¿es que veo un puntito blanco allí? Empujé la lente de mi cámara a lo máximo.

Foto #2: Los puntos blancos son las cabezas de dos águilas. Y hay un nido.

Foto #3: Regresé al coche para traer la camarita de bolsillo. Ve mejor a grandes distancias. Sí, son dos águilas y su nido.

Así que eso era la razón! Y me hace sentirme mejor acerca de todo lo que ha pasado, por la pérdida del bosque y sus habitantes; por lo menos respetaron el derecho primordial de los águilas.

Me quedé por largo rato en el borde de la carretera, observando. Uno de los águilas dejó el árbol y voló sobre el mar, yendo y viniendo, cazando, buscando la cena, mientras su pareja montaba guardia sobre el nido.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Subí el poema entero, pero no me atrevo a traducirlo. En el, el autor (Masefield, 1878 - 1967) expresaba su deseo de estar en un barco en el mar solitario, "... un dia de viento con las nubes blancas volando ..."

Este fue un post de Skywatch. Haz clic para ver cielos alrededor del mundo.

Half a panorama

There's a shortcut down the hill that I sometimes take on my way home. A little awkward at both ends, top and bottom, and a narrow road where you don't want to meet a truck, but it has one attraction: it curves down the edge of the hill above the downtown area, and from a couple of spots, the whole of the channel from the docks to the Seymour Narrows spreads out before me.

I stopped there this afternoon to take a photo.

Two overlapping photos, and still only half the panorama. The populated area of Quadra Island is directly across from here and the mainland mountains raise their peaks beyond. The ferry is just coming into its berth.

No matter how tired I am after a walk or an afternoon shopping for something I never seem to find, this view always sends me home smiling.

View from the north highway.

Looks like summer. But there is still ice on the puddles.

View over Discovery Passage towards April Point, on Quadra Island. With log boom and two tugs. And winter-blasted blackberry canes.

And the trees are stretching naked branches up towards the sun.

From the same location, looking south towards Duncan Bay.

But in my garden at home, the first hyacinth buds are swelling out. Spring is coming.

How very blue

My granddaughter reminded me, the other day, of this poem by Clive Barker:

Life is short
And pleasures few*
And holed the ship
And drowned the crew
But o! But o!
How very blue
the sea is.

A needed reminder in these troubling moments, to stop and look around, to celebrate the world we live in, even as it slowly cooks.

It's raining here again, and the sea and sky and distant mountains are back to their normal winter shades of grey, but there's blue sea on my hard drive.

Off Tyee Spit, last August.

Shades of blue, with multicoloured boxes. September, 2016.

I never know whether to shudder or laugh at this photo, a typical fall view of the Discovery Passage while the ocean rests between tide changes. It is a major shipping route, the most protected ("inside") way north, and barges pass by, loaded with consumer goods, several times daily. But the colours do jar.

* I don't quite agree with that "pleasures few" bit. Sea and sky and trees and lichen and birds and cats and ... and ... and. Not to forget fresh coffee and the first bite into an apple. Doesn't add up to "few".

Homeward bound

The north end of Vancouver island tends to the vertical. Rocky cliffs spring straight up from the shore, as if we were halfway up the mountainsides already. Which, if you consider the height from the nearby sea floor, up to a kilometre underwater, we are.

Even Campbell River, with its rushing rivers bringing down silt to lay out beaches along our shore, is mostly built on the hillside. The lower highway runs close to the beach; streets leading off it climb steeply. From a couple of blocks inland, we can see (on sunny days) across the low islands of the Discovery Passage to the mountains of the mainland.

Typical street view.Two blocks up.

I live on the first block above the highway, so that coming home at the end of the day, I'm usually curving down a side hill, watching the sweep of the strait below me. It's a good feeling, even when sea and sky are grey. And when the sun is shining, I almost hate to get home.

Looking across the Georgia Strait towards Powell River on the mainland. Mitlenatch Island dead centre ahead.

Lighthouse, Quadra Island

The opposite shore, and the mountains of the mainland. (With fresh snow.)

A Wikipedia map might be helpful here. We are at the junction of Discovery Passage and the Georgia Strait, which stretches on down to the Lower Mainland, and the beaches we used to frequent on the border.

Discovery Passage is 1.7 km wide between Campbell River and Quadra Island. (The view in the photo above.)

A Skywatch post.