Non-historical marker

I've been tidying up my hard drives, and found this. I'd meant to post it, and then forgot.


Strathcona, last November. I've forgotten the address. Doesn't matter; nothing happened there.
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Gotta have my spider fix!

It's been a long time (or so it seems; it was December 7th.) since I found any tiny critters to blog about. It's too cold; even the sowbugs have made themselves scarce. I found myself wandering around looking at the corners of ceilings, and under flowerpots or under the outside chairs.  But they're all gone, sleeping or dead.

I thought, when I came to house-sit, that the situation would change; after all, it's a heritage house. (Translated, that means, "really old, with original lumber and lots of cozy cracks.")  And there were plenty last summer. (See "Fifty-six legs") I brought a couple of pill bottles to collect them with, and wondered if, maybe, I shouldn't have packed more.

But there's not a bug in sight. I checked under the sinks, and down in the basement and even the crawl space. All I found were a couple of tiny, pin-head-size house spiders. 

This seems to me to be an odd situation for the Lower Mainland. When I lived up north, I took it for granted that we would have no multi-legged critters from October to March, but here? In this damp climate, I don't think I've ever seen a winter without an invasion of sowbugs into the damp corners under sinks and behind bathtubs, and the spiders that hunt them. Or in these older homes in urban areas, a silverfish or twenty.

I took a flashlight and thoroughly inspected every cranny here. And finally, I found it; behind the furnace, where it's always warm and dry, a spider is hanging. Twisting, and making myself as skinny as possible, I could reach far enough to get a photo!

  

Ahhhhh! That feels good! And isn't she elegant!

Almost the same photo ( I didn't have much maneuvering room), and not as clear, but I got a face shot. 

This seems to be the same kind as one I found in the summer. Now, checking back, I realize that I didn't ID it because the computer went down.  It looks like it could possibly be one of the Longjawed Orb Weavers, the Tetragnathidae, but I can't be sure.  I'll send it in to BugGuide for an ID.

Now I'm wondering; what on earth is she getting to eat?

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First Nations Reserve, Tsawwassen

The name, "Tsawwassen" is a Halkomelem word which means “looking towards the sea.” It fits; the Tsawwassen band occupies a strip along the southeast Delta shoreline, straddling the highway to the ferry landing. About 500 people live there, almost half of them non-native, many in a large, modern condominium at the foot of English Bluff, overlooking the quiet waters of the Strait of Georgia.

We followed the coastline down, crossing the reserve north to south. In the older part, we stopped at the church and its graveyard.

Church on the shore. With boat.

1879 1979
Centennial Heritage Site
Tsawwassen Indian Reserve

Established in 1878 for Delta's first settlers this 600 acre reserve was home to a thriving group of families who lived in community longhouses. They harpooned and trapped Fraser river salmon, small animals, and picked local berries for food.
The church of the Holy Ghost was built in 1904.

Side view of the church.


Small totem in the graveyard.


An even smaller "totem pole"; actually, a carved 4x4 stud. I'd never seen one like this before.


Both totems, for size comparison.


"William George, Aged 80, Died March, 1925." An iron cross, now tumbled on the grass.


On the balcony of a house. The longer you look at this, the more faces you see. Salmon, orca, owl? and human?

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Just like the fjords of home ...

Bella Coola trip, Part V: Hagensborg Church.

(Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV)

The last day of October, 1894, just before the winter set in in earnest, 120 settlers arrived in the Bella Coola Valley, from Norway, via Minnesota. A difficult time of year to start homesteading; residents have spent the summer building up their stores of food and firewood and now they are hunkering down to withstand the winds storming down from the icy slopes. But these newcomers were determined. And tough.

Their leader was a Lutheran pastor, Christian Saugstad. They intended to set up a "little Norway", where they could follow their beliefs without the controversy raging back in Minnesota.

Jacob Johnsen's house. Photo from Bella Coola Valley Museum

That first winter, they cleared land and built their log cabins, tiny shelters from the cold. Soon they were building in the traditional Norwegian style: solid, squared-off logs, neatly joined with dovetailed joints, built to last. Which they have; we can still see some as we drive up the valley.

By 1904, they had built their church, which they named after the one they had left at home; Augsburg. It is still in use today.

Our hostess is a granddaughter of the first pastor, Christian Saugstad, and lives a stone's throw from the church. She lent us the keys and we walked over.

An old photo from my album, 1980s. Slightly faded.

Simple, unpadded pews, and the original altar at the front.

One window: there are three on each side.

From inside, in the summer, the windows, with their view of the mountain ash covered in berries, almost look like stained glass.

Looking inwards: mountain ash and reflected trees.

Moody reflections.

Apples in my hostess' field; a far cry from those first days.

Vines.

Next Bella Coola post: rain on the Saloompt.

Ancient lumber, much weathered.

These are the last of our photos from Finn Slough. Until we go back for the next visit, at least.

Welcoming sign.

Texture and pattern on the old boardwalk.

Cedar shakes on old roofs.

A workshop, possibly still in use, at least for puttering around.

Newer wood, on a garbage and recycling shelter, enhanced by found materials. That's a softball in the V of the support.

A welcoming gate; made to stay open. Old, hand-milled boards.

Mobile homes, of a different sort

Living in a tidal community has unique challenges. Things don't stay put. Floors slant off in odd directions, according to the time of day and season of the year. Unanchored items, left on solid ground in the morning, may have just floated away by mid-afternoon. Even your house might up and leave in the spring, when tides run high: I have seen this happen.

In Finn Slough, the effect is multiplied by the narrowness of the waterway. Houses anchored side by side may tip in opposite directions. Walkways twist and gap. Steps down become steps up. Boats lie like logs on a beach, wherever the water left them.

Houses and sheds built on pilings stay at a permanent level, more or less horizontal. Only more or less, because over the years, currents have pulled and pushed at those pilings, yanked them out of plumb.

The blue shed is fairly recent and on pilings.

Detail of a shed up against the bank.Ancient pilings and sagging platforms.

One handy thing about living almost on the water; boats can be parked at your doorstep.

The little dock will float when the tide comes in. So will the boat.The Mermaid III. Unlikely to be putting to sea anytime soon, I think.

And one unhandy thing: you won't have a garden, unless you put it on a float. Or hang pots off your crowded deck.

Pansy, anchor, fishnets and raingear.

Disappearing Act: Finn Slough

Wetlands. Endangered species. Sinking islands. Developers and fishermen. Language barriers. Common law and lawyers with writs. Bureaucracies, old and new. And a long struggle and desperate hope; the tale of Finn Slough has it all.



The story starts 120 years ago, in the 1890s, when a group of Finnish fisherfolk pooled their savings to buy land on the south shore of Lulu Island, near where Woodward slough meets the sea.

Photo from David Dorrington.

Now, Lulu Island is flat terrain, at sea level and prone to flooding; early settlers built dykes by hand to protect their fields from the salt water. The dykes went up both sides of the slough, which wasn't dammed; a convenient setup for fishermen, who could bring boats right up to their doors.

They set about carving homesteads out of the forest, and began to build fish boats. One of the men towed two float houses up the slough for his family; others built from scratch, on pilings. And of course they built a sauna for the community.

At high tides, the sea invaded. Chickens had to roost at times on the roof of the henhouses. Plank walkways were built above the tide level, and drawbridges with removable boards to permit boats to go on past and into harbour.

Life was good there; salmon were plentiful and the water calm. The community thrived.

In 1900, a local farmer had a dam built at the foot of #5 Road, and floodgates set in the entrance to Woodward Slough. It is doubtful whether the Finnish-speaking residents had any advance notice of this, since they didn't read the English newspaper, where it was publicized. At any rate, they could no longer bring their boats up the slough, and instead found a handy harbour between Whitworth Island (just a gravel bar, really) and the mainland. They built a walkway over to the island for access.

New immigrants arrived. Many could not afford land, and lived in float houses or on their boats. A school was started. Gasoline motors revolutionized the work; the first powered gill net drum was invented and built here. #4 Road was extended to the dykes; now the fishermen could drive to Steveston or Vancouver.

Now, here arises a problem. Whitworth Island, or Gilmore Island as it is also called, was never purchased by the residents; it was just a spit of land in the river where they could pull up their floating houses and docks. In fact, it moved around as the river ate at it, so that the surveyed area of the island no longer exists; it is underwater.

In 1989, a developer managed to obtain a deed for the property. Four years later, the residents found notices pinned to their doors: "... all individuals without written consent (must) leave the Island." This was the first they knew of a proposal to build a condominium and marina complex on Finn Slough.

They fought back, of course. They managed to get jurisdiction over the slough transferred to the Fraser River Harbour Commission and to have the site inspected and designated as an environmentally sensitive area. They formed the Finn Slough Heritage and Wetlands Society, and have been enlisting support of artists, environmentalists, historians and the general public.

The water of Finn Slough is brackish; all of the island, except for about half an acre, is underwater at high tide. So it is home to salt-tolerant plants, several of which are rare or uncommon. One of these is the chocolate lily, Fritillaria camschatencis, which I included in yesterday's post, and which grows now in very few places in the Fraser delta.

Yesterday, as we walked, we were charmed by the singing of birds, a choir of different voices, each with his own tune, yet all harmonizing. I read that we could find the black-headed grosbeak there, and the yellow warbler. I don't think I have ever seen the first.

However, the deed still rests in the hands of the developers. There was an attempt made to invoke common law, which gives continuous residents for more than several decades a deed to the land they occupy, but so far, no luck.

Next generation of fisherfolk, learning the trade.

Today, I found the latest proposal by the developers: an "Executive Summary" outlining 4 possible projects.

* Raise Gilmour Island and put in estate lots similar to the lots developed at Deering Island. The Deering Island lots sold for a minimum of $500,000 during the last real estate recession Vancouver had in 1993.

* Raise Gilmour Island and build a higher density complex. The City of Richmond feels that on this site it is realistic to build townhouses.

* Raise Gilmour Island and develop a residential plus marina and yacht club facility.

* Raise Gilmour Island and build a private residence with water access.

Note that all these proposals start with raising "Gilmour" Island. Killing the plants, burying them under tons of cement.

No mention is made of the community presently living on the Slough; even the name has been somehow "forgotten" and the ancient name of Tiffin Slough is used instead. The Island is called by a misspelling of its alternate name, Gilmore; no doubt to circumvent researchers into the actual status of the land. A photo taken from high above gives no hint of the heritage buildings and structures, nor of the unique characteristics of this wetland.

I would laugh, if it didn't make me so angry: they write,

"The City of Richmond feels that on this site it is realistic to build townhouses."

Realistic, on a site that shifts around with the tide, that is mostly in, not beside, the river? In an area that already needs to be protected by dykes, and at a time when weather patterns may be changing?

But they won't care, I'm sure, once they've built and sold the property; it will be the new owners who are the losers.

Financially, that is. The real losers will be the residents; the birds, the lilies and other plants, the fish and the fishers. And with them, all the rest of us.

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Finn Slough Heritage & Wetland Society

Natural History of Finn Slough

Islands in the Stream

Life on the Fraser

Gunderson Slough in the Rain

A week ago Saturday, a drizzly, chilly afternoon, we visited one of the last "unimproved" sites along the lower Fraser River, a spit out into the river enclosing a slough and housing a higgledy-piggledy conglomeration of warehouses, rotting boathouses, rickety piers and assorted working boats. The railroad runs along the river bank, beyond that, a truck road; from there, the hill rises straight up, covered in scrubby bush and "weed" trees.

It is not a beautiful sight, but somehow, even in the rain, it has a certain decrepit charm and its own sense of a long, busy history. It has been in use since at least 1870, when the first cannery in B.C. was built on the site; it is now named after a Norwegian, Jacob Gunderson, who worked there in the last years of the 19th century.

Gunderson slough is home, according to a signpost beside the road, to (an) unidentified endangered species. A Google search turns up a mention of bar habitat for bottom-dwelling fish, as well as the red-listed stream-bank lupine and western grebes.

And it is scheduled for modernization; a new split-level highway will follow the shoreline here, just beyond the railroad tracks. Cement or stone walls will retain the banks instead of bush; traffic will double; earth-moving equipment will frighten off the grebes. The sagging old sheds will be gone.

It looks all very pretty on the propaganda the government puts out. I doubt that the reality will match.

Here are a couple of photos, as it is today, in the rain and mud.