Why, why, why?

 Occasionally I just have to rant a bit.

On a quiet hillside, off the highway on a forgotten road leading nowhere, where a squirrel scolded me, objecting, it seemed, to my intrusion, where moss lies deep and salmonberry branches sprout new spring buds, where the breeze carries scents of pine and a hint of rain, I came across human sign; black plastic garbage bags, crushed water bottles, messy t-shirts and underwear, tin cans, torn grocery bags, whacked alder saplings. And an apparently intact camping stove, set up ready for use on a stump, and left behind.

Why?

Why, if you love nature enough to set up camp away from the usual amenities of provincial campsites, the firewood and picnic tables and potable water, and — oh, so welcome — the rustic outhouses, why, if your delight is in the freshness of the forest, why do you then fill it with your rubbish?

Plastic is forever.

That reminds me: why, you careful dog walkers, why do you so considerately collect your dogs' doings in plastic bags, tie a knot in them, and toss them into the bush? Where they will sit, unprocessed by Ma Nature's cleanup crew, for centuries. It's good that you take the dog's leavings off the trail, where people can step in it, but please, just scoop it away, without the plastic. Off the path, it will be taken care of like the bear and deer scat is. Worms and beetles will recycle it, the rain will wash it down into the soil to feed the trees; come back in a week, and there will be no sign of it.

But plastic is forever.

Old tin plate, moss, and Oregon grape leaves.

Someone left behind an enamelware camping plate. Maybe by mistake; this was all by itself in another section of forest. At least this will disintegrate; the metal will return to the soil. The enamel is non-toxic. This is forgivable, if careless.

But not plastic. Plastic kills.

Rant over. Until next time.

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

A veces siento la necesidad de protestar.

Un camino subía la ladera de un cerro y me dejó en bosque abierto donde una ardilla me regañaba, protegiendo su territorio privado, donde el musgo cubre todo con un cojín verde y de las ramas secas de salmonberry brotan los nuevos botones de la primavera, donde el aire huele a pinos con un toque de lluvia prometida, me di con huellas humanas: bolsas negras de plástico con basura, botellas de agua aplastadas (de plástico, claro), ropa vieja; camisas y calzoncillos sucios, latas, bolsas de plástico de las que llenas de verdura en el mercado, arbolitos cortados como con machete. Y una estufa de acampar que parecía estar en buenas condiciones, dejada en su sitio sobre un tocón, lista para cocinar, y abandonada allí.

¿Porqué?

¿Porqué, si amas tanto la naturaleza como para acampar fuera de los sitios que provee la provincia, sitios con acceso a agua potable, leña para tu fuego, mesas de picnic, — muy apreciados — los retretes rústicos — si tanto amas la pureza de los bosques, porqué, entonces, los llenas de tus basuras?

El plástico dura para siempre.

Y ya que estoy en ese tema, tu que con tanta consideración de los demás, recoges lo que deja tu perro, lo metes en una bolsita de plástico, le cierras con un nudo, y luego lo avientas entre las hierbas, ¿porqué? Si allí permanecerá, sin que los recicladores naturales lo puedan tocar, por siglos. Sí, es una buena cosa que lo quites del camino donde la gente lo puede pisar, pero por favor tíralo sin el plástico. Ya fuera del sendero, la naturaleza se hará cargo, como lo hace con lo que dejan los osos y los venados; los escarabajos y las lombrices lo convertirán en alimento para los árboles, la lluvia lo lavará; regresa en una semana, y no encontrarás nada.

Pero el plástico es para siempre.

Foto: un plato de campamento esmaltado entre el musgo.

Alguién dejó su plato cuando abandonó su picnic. Tal vez por olvido; solamente había este solo plato en ese sitio. Por lo menos, esto va a desaparecer; el metal regresará al suelo; el esmalte no es tóxico. Un descuido perdonable.

Pero el plástico, no. El plástico mata.

Pet peeve

Every time I walk along a trail near a main road, I come across one or more of these, and go on my way ranting.

Dog poop in a conscientiously selected, carefully tied plastic bag, left beside the trail.

Text of usual rant:

"Look, I see that you're trying to be a responsible pet owner, but think! Use your head for a change!

Your dog's doings will biodegrade, and quickly. One good rain, and they're gone. A hot day, and they'll crumble into dust. But the plastic bag will be there when your remote descendants pop down from Mars to show the kids the old ancestral home. That stuff is forever!

If you don't want to carry the doggy-do out, (and I understand that), carry a pooper-scooper. Or use a handy stick. Be a good neighbour, and remove your dog's contribution from the trail; don't bag it up, but push it away under a handy log, or in the middle of a weed patch. Bury it in the sand, if you will (but not where kids play, but I don't have to tell you that, do I?)

Skip the plastic altogether; why add to all the tons already lying around? Why tempt the birds with what looks so fresh, so delicious? Why?

Need a bag for your dog's leavings? Bring a paper bag. It won't biodegrade as fast as dog poop, but it will be gone by next year, anyhow. Your plastic bag won't.

But whatever you do, don't bag up the stuff and leave it behind to pollute the park!"

End of rant. Until the next neat bag of poop.

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.

To be a barnacle: a rant.

Oh, to be a barnacle, with my head down there, deep in the dark, unseeing, unknowing! And with armoured plates over all to keep it that way!

Acorn barnacles, large and small, shut down for the duration.

I feel powerless, mostly. The news is always bad, the future unpromising. And I can do nothing to change that.

So I putter along with my little blog, focusing on the beauties all around us, the glories we should be preserving and protecting. Maybe if there are enough of us noticing, we can hold back the tide.

Or maybe not.

Today's news; 50 people. For starters. 50 people killed, 53 more shot but surviving. 100 people with friends and families; make it 1000 people grieving. More; those of us who care; tens of thousands of us.

When will it ever end?

The climate is changing. The oceans are faltering. We all know that, even people like Donald Trump, who denies it, but takes care to protect his own property from rising seas. But what do we do about it? Insist on our creature comforts, the hot tubs and iced drinks, the smooth rides, the good foods from the far ends of the earth, while we pump more carbon into the sea; it's all good, it's not happening, or if it is, someone will fix it. Not to worry.

Once upon a time, the slogan was "A chicken in every pot." Now, it's a gun in every pocket and purse. And when someone uses theirs incorrectly, liquidates someone or many someones, the solution offered is "More guns!" The good guys will always outshoot the bad guys. Except that they don't. Still, that's what police and jails are for. Not to worry.

In politics, in religion, in conversations over coffee, the issues of the day revolve around hate. Who do you hate? White people, black people, browns, reds, women, men, teachers, the poor, the different, the stranger, the immigrant; someone hates you! Fundamentalist Christians hate fundamentalist Muslims (never mind that Islam is the closest religion to Christianity) and by extension, all Muslims, and by extension from there, all brownish people, or people who speak the "wrong" language. And vice versa.

Yesterday's shooter hated men in love. He saw two of them kissing, thought it over, and went out to solve the problem. Because hate is encouraged, and guns are there. After all, aren't our good soldiers doing the same thing, solving the ills of the nations with firepower? Good, noble soldiers, bravely protecting our freedoms. Not to worry, then.

I'm reminded of the lines from the old hymn, "Though every prospect pleases, and only man is vile." Of course, I don't hold to that theology; I don't believe humankind is vile. Sure, there are vile people, maybe many of them, but in general, I see good people around me, doing the best they can.

But en masse, I think we must be terminally stupid.

Rant over. End of sarcasm. Back to noticing beautiful anemones and smart snails. Before they're gone.

A rescue and a rant

The tides are at their peak for the year in Boundary Bay, reaching to over 14 feet at high tide, in the middle of the day, and dropping to as low as 1.5 feet around midnight. Compare that, for example, to last July, when the high tide was around 12 feet, and the low just over 7. (And in the daytime, for our wading and exploring pleasure!)

The king tides occur when the Earth, Moon and Sun are aligned at perigee and perihelion, resulting in the largest tidal range seen over the course of a year. So tides are enhanced when the Earth is closest to the sun around January 2nd of each year. They are reduced when it is furthest from the sun, around July 2nd. (Wikipedia)

That's still not an extreme rise and drop, as tides go, but the water has to race in over a mile of flat beach, so the current is strong. Even on a calm day, the waves pound hard on the shore at the high tide line, bringing a load of vegetation, critters, driftwood, and unfortunately, junk with it, and then scouring the sand clean again, as the water roars back out.

A few days ago, at the boat ramp, a tangle of eelgrass was tumbling back and forth, just within the reach of the highest waves. And rolling with it was an unlucky hermit crab, caught without his shell, and unable to get his footing before each new wave caught him and tossed him back onto the cement. I waded in and caught him, and deposited him gently on the wet eelgrass in my bag. I couldn't find a shell for him, but he'd be safe there.

He was hiding under the eelgrass in the bag when we got home, and very jittery; I let him rest in a bowl under a piece of Turkish towel until I found him a selection of shells. A couple of hours later I transferred him, in his chosen shell, to the tank. And he immediately attacked the nearest hermit, a big, no-nonsense male twice his size, and wouldn't let go. I separated them, and he jumped on the next in line, and bullied her out of her shell, which he appropriated.

Not the mild, agreeable hermit behaviour I was used to seeing!

Put it down to panic. By the next morning, he was fitting in fine, sharing food, taking his turn, allowing others to ride on his back. He'd found his spot in the pecking order and all is well.

Other animals weren't quite so lucky. We found this dying nudibranch, still plump and glossy, dumped at the high tide line.

A mid-sized Melibe leonina, with her hood spread out, the teeth still firm at the rim. She's been eating something red or pink.

On the last two trips, I passed dead gulls. No, I didn't take photos; they were a disgusting mess. Maybe I should have. Because I was also collecting bags full of plastic, the stuff that kills seabirds.

There were the usual bottle caps, bits of broken toys, abandoned water bottles - "Pure Spring Water"! - one flip-flop (did the owner hop home?), and candy wrappers. Birds' guts end up full of that stuff; it looks bright and appetizing, and is swallowed too fast for them to realize it's inedible.

But what was worst was the plastic film, the transparent food wrap that, drifting in slow water, looks exactly like a lazy jellyfish. Appetizing, if you're a duck, or a gull. And deadly; it either chokes the bird outright, or clogs up his digestive system so that he can starve to death in the middle of a feast.

I got a full bag of that wrap, along with a few disposable gloves; their fingers fill with water and they wash to and fro, looking juicy. Sort of like that nudibranch above; about the same colour, too.

Why do people leave that sort of stuff on a beach?

A woman saw me dumping my load in a handy garbage container, (put there for that purpose, people!) and thanked me. Good; but wouldn't it be better if everyone put their junk in the barrels in the first place?