Nose to the bark again

I was a kid growing up on the far west coast of this island, back in the days when little of it was logged off. All around us were the dense, green forests. Evergreens: hemlock, Douglas-fir, cedar. On the hill across the channel there was a stand of maple. Mom used to love those when they turned red in the fall; they reminded her of home in Ontario, she said. But we never went over to look at them more closely.

What I knew were the evergreens. I knew the way the cedars drape their branches to leave a dry hideaway underneath. I knew the taste of hemlock branch tips in the spring. I knew the smell of fresh-cut firewood and the spicy aroma of the huge Christmas tree in the hospital lounge. And the mossy silence under the giants. And the way the darkness of the shadows between the trunks beckoned me. Beyond that, not much. My curiosity led me down other paths, had me turning over stones on the beach and diving under the wharf. 

So when, years later, on drier shores, I learned that deciduous trees (like maples, not fruit trees; they were special, right?) produced flowers, I was astounded. I thought flowers were things that grew on the ground or on shrubs, like daisies and thimbleberries. And even now, in the spring when the maples and red alders dangle their catkins and blossoms, I am filled with that same sense of wonder.

And the wonder goes on; the more I look at the trees, the more amazing they become. Hence, looking at bark. How it works, how it changes, how it lasts. And what it looks like on individual trees.

Here are more nose-level tree trunks, these decorated with dust and crust lichens. All of these are in the lawns around the Campbell River museum.

Douglas-fir with green dust. It always looks like old paint.

This is a maple, and there are two lichens; the dry, crusty whitish patches, and a tiny leafy lichen colonizing the cracks in the bark.

I can't identify this tree; not even when it was in leaf. Spruce, maybe? It's painted top to toe with this green lichen.

Maple, with whitish patches. And I liked the extra pattern from the sun peeking through the leaves overhead.

Another Douglas-fir, I think, with just a light dusting of green lichens.

And I've been told to look at other details, the trunk flair, the buds, the cones. So many fractal levels! So I'll go back again soon, and again in the spring, when the leaves start to show.

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

Yo era una niña que vivía entre los bosques en la costa del oeste de esta isla, en los años cuando todavía no se habían cortado tanto. Nos rodeaban esos bosques, verdes, tupidos. Siempre verde; eran tsugas (hemlock), cedros, abetos de Douglas. En la cara del cerro al otro lado del estrecho frente a nuestra casa crecía una arboleda de arces; a Mamá le gustaba cuando se volvían rojos en el otoño; le recordaban su casa en Ontario, decía. Pero nunca fuimos a mirarlos más de cerca.

Lo que yo conocía eran los árboles perennes. Sabía como cuelgan las ramas los cedros, dejando un escondite en seco junto al tronco. Conocía el sabor de las ramitas nuevas de tsuga en la primavera. Conocía el olor de leña recién cortada, y el aroma picante del gran árbol de Navidad en la sala de estar del hospital. Y es silencio bajo los gigantes, todos los sonidos del munído exterior apagados por el musgo. Y como la oscuridad entre los troncos me llamaba. Más de eso, no sabía gran cosa. La curiosidad me llevaba por otros caminos, volteando piedras en la playa o buceando debajo del muelle.

Así fue que cuando, años más tarde, en tierras secas, descubrí que los árboles de hoja caduca (no los frutales; ellos eran algo especial ¿no?) producían flores, me quedé atónita.  Hasta entonces, pensaba que las flores eran cosas que crecían en tierra, o en arbustos frutales, como por ejemplo las margaritas y las moras. Y hasta ahora, cuando en la primavera veo las flores y candelillas de los arces y los alisos rojos, me llena un asombro vivo.

Y sigue ese asombro; entre más observo los árboles, tanto más fascinantes son. Y por lo tanto, aquí estoy mirando cortezas, preguntando como es que funciona, como cambia, como perdura. Y como se ve en cada árbol individual.

Aquí subo más troncos vistos a nivel de mis ojos, todos creciendo en los jardines del museo de Campbell River y llevando líquenes de polvo o crustosos.

Fotos:

1. Abeto de Douglas con liquen de polvo verde. Siempre se ve como si se hubiera tirado pintura.
2. Un arce, con dos líquenes, uno duro, seco, blanquisco, el otro muy pequeño, folioso, creciendo entre las grietas de la corteza.
3. No puedo identificar con certeza este árbol. Picea, tal vez. El liquen lo cubre desde arriba hasta abajo.
4. Arce, con liquen blanquisco. Y me gustó el diseño de sombras formado por el sol entre las hojas.
5. Otro abeto de Douglas con solo una salpicadura de liquen verde.

Y me han dicho que hay que ver otros detalles, o sea el ángulo de la base del tronco, los botones, las piñas. ¡Tantas capas de detalles que hay! Iré de vuelta pronto a visitarlos, y otra vez en la primavera, cuando empiezan a aparecer las hojas nuevas.

No hurry

The rocks just sit there. The tide comes in, the tide goes out; rain and wind pound the shore, sun bakes it, seaweed grows and dies, crabs and sea urchins come and go. The rocks just sit there.

Stories Beach glacier tracks.

Well, not really. Our sense of time is off. We're so short-lived; everything has to happen NOW!

Back when the island was young, a dying tribe of glaciers raced down into the ocean, scraping the ground as they went, dropping the rocks they had collected up on the mountain tops as they melted.

Abandoned erratic

The activity didn't stop when the ice had joined the sea. Wind and water took up the task and have pounded the shore for thousands of years, shaping soft sandstone, rolling, cracking, and polishing harder rocks, sometimes sweeping the shore clean of encroaching seaweed, sometimes nourishing it. Stand on the edge of the water on a pebbly beach and listen; with each wave, you will hear the stones rolling back and forth.

Sandstone outcrop among harder, tide-polished stones.

The shoreline is still changing. From year to year, I see the differences; a new spit at Oyster Bay, freshly shattered layers of sandstone, a change in the seaweed cover on Stories Beach, a new crop of barnacle and oyster scars, deeper muck below an estuary; sand and stone and their living guests responding to the world around them. On their own schedule.

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

Las rocas no hacen nada. No se mueven. Sube la marea y baja, el viento y el agua golpean la costa, el sol la quema, algas marinas crecen y se mueren. Cangrejos y erizos de mar van y vienen. Las rocas se quedan tranquilos y en paz.

Fotos:

1. Huellas de los glaciares en la playa Stories.
2. Bloque errático, abandonado por el graciar.
3. Piedra arenosa entre piedras pulidas.

Bueno, no es cierto que las rocas no se mueven. Nuestra idea de tiempo anda mal.

Cuando la isla era joven, una tribu de glaciares moribundas corrieron hacia el mar, raspando el suelo en camino, dejando caer las rocas que habían juntado, allá arriba en las montañas ahora que se estaban derritiendo.

No cesó la actividad cuando los glaciares se habían hundido en el mar. El aire y el agua empezaron su obra de moldear lo que los glaciares abandonaron. Durante miles de años han seguido tallando la piedra arenosa, rodando y quebrando y puliendo las rocas más duras. Hoy en dia, párate justo a la orilla del agua en una playa de piedras chicas cuando baja la marea: oirás el rumor de las piedras rodantes.

La costa sigue cambiando. De un año al otro, veo las diferencias: una lengua de tierra nueva en Oyster Bay, estratos de piedra arenosa recién rotos, un cambio de la vegetación de algas en la playa Stories, nuevas incrustaciones de conchas de ostiones y bálanos, más lodo orgánico a la boca de un rio: la arena, la piedra y sus huéspedes vivos responden al mundo a sus alrededor. Todo a su tiempo.

Going places

I'm walking down Tyee Spit looking at eagles and crows, and I hear a rumble overhead. And now I stand and watch until the plane drops out of the clouds, splashes down on the estuary and taxis to its mooring. It's a habit that harks back to those days long, long ago, when I was a kid on the far side of the island, watching the weekly mail come in.

Orange bird

We have highways these days, crossing the island in several places, running from north to south. Smaller roads, logging roads winding through the forests and along the valleys. But there are still many small communities on and around the island where the only access is by air or water. Where we still rely on tiny float planes to carry mail, equipment and people.

Tyee Spit, 50 years ago, was the busiest float plane base in the world. Those days are gone, but it's still active; every time I am there, several small planes come and go.

Vancouver Island Air, Turbine Otter. 14 passengers, or 1 ton payload.

Of the original 466 Otters built between 1951 and 1967, less than 200 are still around. Originally powered by 600hp Pratt & Whitney Wasp radial engines, most have been converted to Turbine. (Vancouver Island Air)

From my Dad's old camera; our mail plane. 1950 or thereabouts.

This was a Grumman Goose G-21, built in the 1930s, carrying up to 6 passengers. About 30 are still in operation today, flying to and from communities here on the island and on the north coast.

I flew in to Gold River in one of these in the early '50s. Dad up front with the pilot, Mom and us 3 kids in back with our luggage. When we dropped into Gold River, the plane circled, almost standing on its wing; all I could see out my window was the water. And then the plane righted itself and we splashed down and headed for the dock.

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

Estoy en Tyee Spit, mirando los cuervos y águilas cuando oigo un rumor allá arriba entre las nubes. Y tengo que pararme y observar mientras la avioneta aparece entre las nubes, aterriza en el agua con gran chapoteo, y navega tranquilamente hasta su amarradero. Una costumbre que recuerda siempre los dias de antaño cuando veía llegar el avion con el correo semanal.

En estos tiempos, hay carreteras que cruzan la isla en varios sitios, carreteras también que van desde el norte hasta el extremo del sur. Y caminitos, caminos de los madereros que serpentean entre los bosques y al fondo de los valles. Pero todavía hay muchas comunidades pequeñas en donde el aceso sigue siendo únicamente por mar o cielo. Y allí dependemos de estas avionetas flotantes para traer y llevar el correo, equipo, y pasajeros.

La lengua de tierra Tyee Spit, hace 50 años, era el centro de los aviones flotantes más activo en todo el mundo. Ya pasaron esos dias, pero sigue en uso; cada que estoy allí, veo aterrizar a varias avionetas.

Fotos:

1. Ahi viene, de entre las nubes.
2. Es un Otter (nutria) Turbine, operado por Vancouver Island Air. Lleva hasta 14 pasajeros o una tonelada de cargo. De los 466 Otter originales, construidos entre 1951 y 1967, menos de 200 siguen en operación. (Vancouver Island Air)
3. El avión que nos traía el correo semanal, cerca de 1950. Foto de la cámara de mi papá. El avión es un Grumman Goose (ganso) G-21, construido en los años 30. Lleva hasta 6 pasajeros. Alrededor de 30 siguen volando hoy en dia, sirviendo comunidades en la isla y en la costa norteña.

Llegué a Gold River en uno de estos en la década de los 50. Papá estaba en frente con el piloto, Mamá con nosotros chicos y nuestras petacas atrás. Cuando bajábamos hacia el pueblo, el avión tuvo que dar vuelta entre las montañas, inclinándose al costado, casi parado sobre el ala, parecía; lo único que yo podía ver por mi ventana era el agua. Y entonces el avión se enderezó, aterrizamos en el agua y nos dirigimos al muelle.

Rock-hard pillows

About those lumpy rocks:

A friend sent me a link to a BC government pdf, dealing with the geologic structures of Strathcona Park, which encompasses the central part of the island at this latitude. In it, there is a good explanation of the lumps and bumps. It's pillow lava, ancient underwater lava bubbles. I'll quote from the pdf:

First, a bit of background, from that document.

"... beneath your feet lies a history stretching back 380 million years. It is a history of violent volcanic eruptions on ancient seafloors and quiet interludes when gardens of sea lilies waved in gentle ocean currents. It is a history of rocks torn and folded by the extraordinary forces which can move continents, and of mountain ranges sculpted by the immensely thick ice sheets which only vanished a few thousand years ago."

"The first volcanoes: 380 to 360 million years ago
During the Devonian Period a long gently-curving arc of volcanoes was built by explosive eruptions in the deep eastern Pacific Ocean. These undersea mountains were built up by successive volcanic eruptions and were subject to massive rock slides cascading down their slopes."

These early volcanoes were those that formed the core of the Buttle Lake region.

BC Gov. map, with my added arrow. The Buttle Lake region is that brown patch.

Now those lumpy rocks:

Karmutsen Formation
This 6500-metre-thick pile of basalt flows ... is the most abundant rock unit in the park. About half the mountains, including the highest ones, are carved from these basalts. This formation has a characteristic look from afar; being prominently layered in thick beds and forming reddish-brown dome-shaped peaks. It is also unique close up, as the pillowed form of much of the lava is very distinctive."

These pillow lavas form when basaltic lava erupts under water and is partially chilled by contact with the water. The lava thereby forms a rubbery skin through which more hot lava keeps flowing and expanding. This expansion results in ruptures of the skin and new balloon shaped buds and branches, some of which break off and roll down the slope of the sea floor to form pillows. Over time, the steady submarine eruption of lava, from cracks and fissures, built up a thick, extensive pile of these pillow lavas which totally blanketed the older rocks. They form most of the mountains west of Buttle Lake and south of Upper Campbell Lake and Elk River.

You can see the pillow shapes readily in road cuts along the mine road from about 1.5 kilometres south of park headquarters to beyond Lupin Falls.

Just another cliff face. Composite photo, focus stacked side to side. On the upper right, some pillows are visible.

All this was happening on the sea bed; the pillows formed underwater. With time, the whole shebang moved east and crumpled up to form tall mountains well above water.

I'm halfway through reading the pdf. And already it has cleared up another mystery for me. I'll post about that soon.

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

Una amiga me envió un enlace a un documento del gobierno de BC, que explica el misterio de esas rocas redondeadas. Son lava/almohada.

Una traducción aproximada de esta explicación:

... bajo tus pies se extiende una historia que abarca 380 millones de años. Es una historia de erupciones volcánicas violentas en el fondo del mar antiguo y de intervalos tranquilos durante de los cuales jardines de crinóideos (lirios de mar, un animal del filo de los equinodermos) se mecían en los corrientes suaves del oceano. Es una historia de piedras arrancadas y plegadas por las fuerzas extraordinarias que mueven los continentes, una historia de sierras esculpidas por las inmensamente gruesas masas de hielo, las cuales apenas desaparecieron hace unos cuantos miles de años.

Los primeros volcanes: de hace 380 a 360 millones de años:

Durante el período Devónico un arco largo volcánico se formó a causa de erupciones explosivas en las honduras del este del oceano Pacífico. Estas montañas bajo el mar fueron construidas por medio de erupciones consecutiva, se moldeaban por enormes caídas de roca que se deslizaban en sus cuestas.

La formación Karmutsen

Este montón de basalto, de 6.500 metros de grueso es la unidad más común de roca en el parque. Más o menos la mitad de las montañas, incluyendo a las más altas, están formadas de estos basaltos. La formación tiene un aspecto característico vista desde lejos; siendo ordenada visiblemente en capas gruesas y formando cumbres redondeadas de color café rojizo. También de cerca es único, pues la forma de almohadas de mucho de la lava es inconfundible.

Estas lavas acojinadas (almohadillada) se forman cuando lava basáltica hace erupción bajo agua, y el agua la enfría parcialmente. Esta lava enfriada compone una corteza plástica, a manera de hule, cubriendo el flujo de lava fresca, la cual sigue fluyendo y dilatándose. Se rompe esta corteza, y se forman burbujas y nuevas ramas, algunas de las cuales se separan y ruedan cuesta abajo para formar cojines en el fondo del mar. Con el tiempo, la constante erupción submarina de lava desde grietas y fisuras contryó una gruesa capa de estas almohadilladas hasta totalmente cubrir la piedra antigua. Esta capa constituye la mayor parte de las montañas al oeste de Buttle Lake y al sur de Upper Campbell Lake y el Río Elk.

Se pueden ver claramente las formas acojinadas donde se ha cortado la roca para construir el camino desde unos 1,5 kilómetros al sur de la oficina del parque hasta más allá de la Caída Lupin.

Todo esto pasó en el fondo del mar; los cojines se formaron bajo agua. Con el tiempo, todo se trasladó al oeste, apachurrándose contra el continente para formar las altas montañas de nuestra isla.

Apenas he leído la mitad del documento, y ya se me ha aclarado otro misterio. Escribré sobre eso pronto.

Buttle Lake; a bit of history

Large areas of Vancouver Island have been historically untouched by humans. The terrain is too rugged; the rainforest too dense, the climate too inhospitable; even the inland waterways are forbidding. Most settlements have been along the coast, accessible by boat. (Dugout canoe, in the old days.)

For example:

What was described as a first class trail between Nanaimo and Comox had been completed in May 1863 ... When Brown explored up the island in August 1864, [15 months later] he found the trail blocked by windfalls and washouts, although he did find one bridge remaining at the Qualicum River. (Vancouver Island Exploring Expedition 1864)

An easy trail to follow through the bush. Google maps photo, Karst Creek trail.

Buttle Lake, running down the centre of the island, between steep mountains, was discovered first by Europeans in 1865. (If First Nations people had been there earlier, they have left no trace. That we have found.)  John Buttle, with the Vancouver Island Exploring Expedition, discovered the lake in 1865, probably following a chain of lakes and rivers upstream from the coast. Buttle Lake is the first of the lakes and rivers that feed into the Campbell River.

Buttle Lake from Auger Point, looking downstream.

The lakes were smaller back then: in 1958, the BC Power Commission dammed the Campbell Lake, raising the water level 30 metres, dividing the lake into Upper and Lower Campbell Lakes. The water backed up into Buttle Lake, raising it by 5 metres. These days, when the water is low, the stumps of the old drowned forest are still visible on the bare shores.

Near the north end of the lake. The water is low, although the rains have started.

Remains of a drowned forest.

Island, mid-lake.

There is an interesting set of photos on a UVic library page, Before Strathcona Dam. Two photos of the same area of Upper Campbell Lake, taken in 1950 and 1959, are layered, with a slider to show how the lake grew. Worth looking at.

A Skywatch post.

View from the Zeballos dock

Vancouver Island's small coastal communities grow, boom, shrink, rally, dwindle, grow, and dwindle again; the terrain is challenging, access limited, the weather mostly wet, and the hazards (fire, flood, earthquakes, landslides) unpredictable. Zeballos is a good example.

I drove in to Zeballos last Sunday. The last time I was there was about 45 years ago; we drove in on a logging road from Woss, also on a Sunday; Dad had to get permission from the logging company. It was slow going. At one point the road was so steep that the car's motor boiled over, and we all had to get out and walk to the top of the hill, and the next steep hill after that, picking and eating huckleberries as we went. There were 9 of us in that car, mostly kids. In those days, there were no seat belts, and kids sat on adults' laps.

Before that, it was 1955 when I was a regular visitor. Every Sunday; Dad was preaching in a store-front church there.

Zeballos dock, as I saw it last Sunday, on a rainy afternoon.

To take this photo, I went to the spot where my brothers and I would go down on Sunday afternoons to the log dump; the end of the wharf where logging trucks would dump their loads into the ocean to be boomed and hauled away. It was a bit different back then. The road was gravel, but mostly covered several inches deep with chips of bark and shredded wood. There were no railings on the dock; it was not meant for people. Here and there rusty old pieces of machinery waited until they were wanted. We climbed on some of them. There was a small float dock on the far side, where we tied up our boat.

Zeballos was a small settlement until gold was discovered, in the 1930's. The mine was extremely productive, and the town grew to around 1500 people. Then WWII came, and the men went away to war. When they came back, the price of gold had dropped, and the mines never recovered.

In the beginning, the miners carried the sacks of ore out on their backs down the narrow, slippery trails, through the mud and windfalls to the Zeballos River. From there the ore was transported downstream in a flat bottom boat to the mouth of the river where it was again backpacked over land to the beach. (Zeballos: Golden Gate to the West Coast)

The hotel, thriving in the gold rush days, closed in 1948. The population shrunk to 35. That's how I remember it, in 1955; I rarely saw any people on the street; there were only a few inhabited houses. I remember setting up chairs for Sunday service; a dozen or fifteen chairs were enough, even including our family of 5. We would have a morning service, then lunch (Spam, canned peas, instant potatoes, canned fruit, tea) heated on the wood stove, then go back to our boat and home, an hour's ride away. There was no other way, except by float plane, to reach the town. Food and mail were brought in on the Princess Maquinna weekly, to this town and to us, back on Nootka Island.

By then, logging was providing an income. The town grew again. There was a school. The hotel re-opened. And closed again. In 1964, the Alaska earthquake shook the town, and the ensuing tsunami flooded it. (There are still signs along the road near the docks warning visitors of tsunami hazards.)

In 1970, Tahsis Company (logging) built the road we drove in on a few years later, "... eliminating Zeballos' outport status ..." (Vanishing BC)

The hotel burned down in 2008. Last year, an out of control forest fire on the mountain overlooking the town forced an evacuation order. Wikipedia gives the 2016 population as 107 people. But there is a school, a clinic, a museum, a library, well cared for nature trails, one (1) store, a few B&Bs, fishing and ecotourism guides: the town is far from dead.

I"ll go back someday, on a sunny day; I'd like to explore the estuary nature trail.

Old burn

In the summer of 1938, Vancouver Island sweltered through the longest drought seen for over 50 years. Sparks from logging operations set off dozens of small brush fires. Smoke hung over the hills.

Fire broke out in a log pile on Menzies Bay, just north of Campbell River, and leapt into the forest. A couple of days later, in spite of the 400 firefighters trying to quench it, it was burning over several thousand acres of timber. By the third day, it was threatening Campbell River, and racing up-river, past Elk Falls. The smoke rose two kilometres into the air, and covered almost two-thirds of Vancouver Island.

The fire headed south then, passing Campbell River, racing towards Comox, and east up the mountainsides to Mount Washington. 2000 men fought it, hopelessly. 470 square kilometres of forest were in flames, and the wind was picking up. At times, it reached 150 km/hr.

And then the rain came. The blessed, drenching West Coast rain, pouring down steadily for weeks. In the ancient forest off Elma Bay, these days called the Miracle Beach Provincial Park, the roaring blaze sizzled into damp coals.

Some say that's how Miracle Beach got its name.

Today, many of the older trees in Miracle Beach Provincial Park still wear the scars of that fire.

Survivor, still green up top.

Older Douglas-fir bark is thick and deeply grooved, providing habitat for many insects and nesting sites and groceries for birds and small animals. And old, damaged bark is even more hospitable. This old tree still retains some old scorch marks; it looks like most has been riddled by insects and then birds collecting insects.

The crevices go deep into the tree; I tried to light the bottom of several holes with the camera's flash, but the light didn't reach that far.

Near the centre of the section above, if you look closely, you'll see a white circle. I moved in to get a better look.

"Come into my parlor ..."

A spider hole, wide enough for a chickadee to wander in.

From another angle

I can't be sure; is that a spider lurking deep inside, or just blotchy patches in the bark? I didn't risk sticking a finger in to find out.

For comparison: a pair of unburnt Douglas-fir trunks. Grooved, but much neater.

And the remains of a smaller tree, after the woodpeckers have eaten their fill.

Contact

The little float planes always draw my eyes. When I was a child on the remote west coast of Vancouver Island, they were our main connection to the nebulous "world outside". The planes brought the mail once a week; sometimes they carried people ("in" and "out", out being anywhere else). A visit from the old ship S. S. Princess Maquinna* brought our groceries and packages up from Vancouver three times a month; a couple of times, we hitched a ride into the big city on her; but the buzzing, hurrying little mail planes were our contact with our families scattered around the globe.

Those days are gone. I get my mail now at my desk, wirelessly beamed into this computer. Or it's on our phones; one in every pocket or purse, these days. We are connected, always.

But still the sight of a tiny float plane calls to me, speaking of a time gone by when we all lifted our heads at the sound of their approach; friends coming! News! Family letters! Contact!

I took these two photos at Tyee Spit last month.

On land, resting. Air Nootka Beaver.

Landing, Cessna Skywagon, Campbell River estuary.

*The S.S.Maquinna, known as “Old Faithful,” served the west coast from 1913 to 1952. Through west coast storms and fair seas, she arrived every ten days with passengers, mail and supplies from Victoria. (TofinoTime)

When trees were huge

One hundred years ago, Vancouver Island was covered shore to shore, high-tide line to high-tide line, with forest. The trees were huge; 30 feet around or more, 6 feet across. An old family photograph, now lost, showed my aunt, about 5'5" tall, standing in front of a downed trunk; it loomed over her, at least a foot wider than she was tall.

The weekly mail plane, Vancouver Island west coast, 1950s. One small settlement (Hungerford's place, I think, now gone). Forests still go to the high tide line. My father's photo.

Not so today; a Google Earth fly-over reveals huge logged-off patches, a network of logging roads, the brighter green of opportunist deciduous trees, and remains of old logging operations. Most of the forests now are second- or third-growth trees. Logging trucks carry bundles of skinny poles, matchsticks compared to the old logs, some of which were, singly, a full load for a big truck.

Log on truck trailer, 1944. Vancouver Archives collection.

Zeballos, a logging town on the west coast. 1940s. A few bare patches are visible on the left. When I knew it, in the 1950s, a large area of hillside had been logged off along the surrounding coast.

GoogleEarth view, mid-island. Darkest green shows unlogged areas.

Loggers were at work here since ancient times; the native peoples cut trees for houses, heating, canoes, and tools. The invading Europeans brought metal axes and saws, and used the wood for their own houses, boats, heating, and eventually power. (Some boats were run by steam power, with wood-fired boilers.)

In the 1920s, large-scale industrial logging started to change the map, including the creation of Oyster Bay. (continued tomorrow.)

A place in our hearts

Every coastal BC native plant garden needs a patch of bleeding hearts. Beside the Campbell River Museum, they grow at the bottom of the north hill, at the edge of the bush. It's half sunny there, but damp, just the way bleeding heart likes it.

Dicentra formosa

The bleeding heart flower has four petals, but the most visible ones are the two pouched ones that make the heart shape. Where are the other two? Hidden inside. They are completely covered by the heart, except at the very bottom, where they join again, to make the droplet of "blood" that gives the flower the first part of its name.

Each flower head may have up to 15 flowers.

The plants will bloom until the weather heats up, die down for the summer, then flower again in the fall, if the weather is to their liking.

The humble little flower has its part in our history:

The Pacific bleeding-heart (Dicentra formosa subsp. formosa) was discovered by the Scottish surgeon and naturalist Archibald Menzies* on the Vancouver Expedition. Menzies collected seed in 1792 in Nootka Sound, and gave it to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew in 1795. From there, seed made its way into cultivation in Europe. It apparently was not cultivated in the United States until 1835, when William Kenrick began selling the plant in Boston. (From Wikipedia)

*Menzies was accompanying Captain George Vancouver on his voyage around the world on HMS Discovery. They arrived in Nootka in July or August of 1792, where Menzies found bleeding heart gone to seed.

150 + some years later, I arrived in Tahsis, slightly north of Nootka Sound, where I found bleeding hearts blooming thickly in the rain beside the hill road. Not one for the history books, but an important memory in my personal album.