The way it used to be

The water is rising again. Highways that had been reopened (at least to essential travel) are closed again. The rivers (Fraser, Nooksack, Vedder, Sumas, Chilliwack rivers) are pouring into Sumas Prairie. Again, on top of the flooding from two weeks ago. And more rain is coming.

I've been remembering my lazy drives across this area, coming home from points east, following the farm roads, jogging south and west, watching birds and cows and growing things; corn and pumpkins, flowers and fruit, nuts and veggies. All underwater now.

Somewhere in the valley, September 2013

Corn, 2010

Contented cows, under Vedder Mountain, 2010

Pumpkins ready for market, 2013

Today's news is full of photos of muddy, brown water, half-drowned barns, sandbags, and maps of evacuation zones.

Screenshot, CTV News.

So sad.

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Se está subiendo el agua otra vez. Carreteras que se habían abierto, aunque solo para tránsito esencial, se han vuelto a cerrar. Los rios (el Fraser, el Nooksack, Vedder, Sumas, Chilliwack) se han desbordado y están cubriendo el valle de Sumas. Otra vez, sumándose al agua que todavía cubre las granjas desde las inundaciones de hace quince dias. Y nos amenaza otro río atmosférico.

Me he estado acordando de los dias cuando cruzaba este valle, descansando de regreso a viajes al este, siguiendo los caminos hacia el sur y hacia el oeste, entre los campos alegres llenos de pájaros y vacas y plantas, maiz y calabazas, flores y frutas, nueces y verduras.

Todo está bajo el agua ahora.

Fotos:

1. Una granja, septiembre de 2013
2. Maiz, 2010
3. Vacas en la sombra del monte Vedder, 2010
4. Calabazas listas para el mercado, 2013
5. Captura de pantalla, hoy, CTVNews

Las fotos en las noticias de hoy son de agua llena de lodo, graneros inundados, sacos de arena, y mapas de zonas de evacuaciones.

¡Tanta tristeza!

I'm back

I'm sorry; I've been so disheartened by the drowning and destruction of our highways and farms and homes, even though where I am, it doesn't touch me directly for now, that I have not been able to look at my cheerful photos, some taken while the water elsewhere was busy creating havoc.

I started blogging, so many years ago now, celebrating the life and beauty all around us. So much to see, underfoot, underwater, in the air above us, in the forests and fields; so much to rejoice in!

But increasingly, I find I'm documenting the losses. The starfish died. We've been clearcutting our forests, destroying habitat for bears and bees and birds. Invasive plants crowd out the deer's fodder. I rarely see moths these days; walking down forest trails, I no longer find myself walking into spider webs. After this summer's heat dome, the beaches smelled of rotting mussels, not able to survive the baking sun at low tide. 

We have fouled our nest; it's about time we started to clean it up.

And this flooding, these landslides and washouts, are part of the picture. Clearcutting destabilizes slopes; dead wood encourages fires; roots no longer hold back the water. And it comes rushing down the hillsides, ripping out our roads and homes as it comes.

This isn't the end of sorrows; while we continue as if nature were indestructible, more torrential rains will fall, more snow will melt, more animals will die.

I am still disheartened.

But we must go on. Even if it's just recording what is and soon may not be.

So here's a beaver pond and lodge, surviving the high water.

The beavers have built their lodge tall, so they still have a dry sleeping space.

The back side of the pond. The water has covered the usual crop of waterlilies and reeds. The birds are too far away to be identified.

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Lo siento: he estado tan desanimada por lo de las inundaciones y derrumbes, donde se ahogan nuestros hogares y campos y se destruyeron nuestras carreteras principales; aunque por ahora, donde vivo, no me ha afectado directamente; que no he podido ni mirar mis fotos, demasiado alegres, algunas sacadas mientras que el agua en otras partes de la provincia causaban catastrofes.

Empecé a escribir el blog, hace ya muchos años, para celebrar la vida y la belleza que nos rodea. ¡Tanto hay que ver, bajo nuestros pies, en el agua, el los bosques y los campos, en el aire donde vuelan las águilas; tanta razón de regocijarnos!

Pero cada vez más, me doy cuenta que estoy contando las pérdidas. Las estrellas de mar se murieron, por miles, millones. Hemos estado tumbando nuestros bosques, dejando la tierra desnuda, destrozando los hogares de los osos, los alces, los pájaros y todo. Plantas invasivas no comestibles crecen donde antes los venados encontraban alimento. Casi nunca veo mariposas nocturnas en estos dias; caminando por los senderos del bosque, ya no me doy con la cara en las telarañas. Después del calorón de este verano, las playas apestaban a mejillones podridos, que no pudieron aguantar el sol durante la marea baja.

Nos hemos destrozado nuestro nido. Ya era tiempo de que nos pusiéramos a limpiarlo.

Y estas inundaciones, los corrimientos de terreno, los torrentes que se llevan las casas y caminos, forman parte del mismo imagen. Cortando los bosques al ras desestabiliza las laderas de las montañas; la madera muerta, dejada tras las máquinas, se prende facilmente; incendios forestales destruyen las raices que detienen el agua. Y ahí viene ese agua, llevando la tierra con ella, destrozando nuestras casas y construcciones en camino.

Este no es el fin de problemas: mientra sigamos como si nada, como si la naturaleza fuera algo indestructible, seguirá lloviendo en cantidades inesperadas, se derretirá más de la nieve de las cimas, se morirán más animales.

Sigo desanimada.

Pero la vida sigue. Tenemos que marchar adelante. Aunque no solo sea para documentar lo que hay, y que tal vez luego no haya.

Así que aquí hay una laguna con madriguera de castor, y el agua a su máximo. (Por ahora.)

Fotos: la madriguera es grande; todavía hay lugar adentro fuera del agua. En la laguna, el agua ha cubierto todos los lirios acuáticas y cañas que normalmente cubren la superficie. Los pajaritos están demasiado lejos para poderlos identificar.

In the woods.

(A bit of a rant here, a whine. Forgive me.)

Some days I need to find an open road and drive, drive, drive. To escape the rush and noise, the signs; "buy this! you need this! can't live without this!"; the barges carrying plastics, so useful until they end up in the bellies of our birds and fish; the constant reminders of problems to be dealt with, of impossible solutions, of problems being conscientiously made worse.

I took the highway north again. Passing Lake Roberts, I saw a small sign, half hidden in the bushes, and followed a pot-holed gravel road down to a parking lot and a trailhead. The trail led to the lake and a picnic area. There was no-one about; a parked motor home was dark and silent.

The path wound downhill, through evergreen forest, dark and cool, carpeted with ferns and moss, sprinkled here and there with starry white flowers. Overhead, the wind rustling in the branches masked the distant sounds of the occasional car on the highway.  Near the lake, I finally came to a halt in an opening among the trees, knee-deep in ferns, fragrant, green-scented.

So quiet!

For a moment, I was transported back in time, to when, as a child, I wandered in similar forests on the far side of the island. So peaceful, so safe! I could breathe here!

But it was different back then. The forest was eternal; it had been there long before we showed up, it would be there long after we were gone. It was secure, and in it, I felt that security.

Now, there is fear. The forests are dwindling. The birds and the bears are fading away, the steady march of the seasons has failed. And the chainsaws and haulers are busy; along the roads, the logging companies have left a green belt, but the sun shines through the trees from mountainsides just beyond, devastated, empty of anything green or moving.

Sometimes I am so disheartened that it is hard to go on.

There is healing in the forest. There is hope, maybe. All is not lost; life goes on, building on the ruins of the past.

Nurse stump. Rotten and crumbling, it supports and feeds a new tree; as the stump disappears, the tree will send its roots down to the ground below.

Squirrel table. They've eaten the seeds from fir cones, and left the husks. Some of the seeds will have been scattered, uneaten. Some will become new trees.

Woolly bear sleeping on a fence.

I went on, came down to the lake, found columbines and bugs, took photos of those starry flowers. I can't stop our "progress", as we call it, towards a barren earth, but at least I can record the beauties of our world as it is now. Maybe, someday, we'll learn to live respectfully.

And the forest had one more reminder for me. "Laugh!" it said.

Do fuzzy yellow dogs climb trees?

So I laughed and went home.

An opportunity lost.

I made a quick trip to Victoria, for a birthday party. We were early, so we stopped for supper beside the Inner Harbour, and afterwards walked to the Parliament Buildings and back. It was chilly, but that just makes the lights shine brighter.

Parliament Buildings, Victoria

The blue lighting on the water behind the boats is the old Undersea Gardens, an underwater aquarium that allowed visitors to view marine life in situ. I was disappointed to read later, that it is now closed, after almost 50 years of operation. I always meant to visit, and never got around to it. My mistake.