Shallow Campbell River

When its hot, the river calls ...

The Campbell River, from a logging bridge. Zoom in; there are three fishermen and a rubber dinghy upriver. The river is quite shallow here, as it widens and spreads into a maze of creeks below the canyon.

The dinghy approaching the bridge, bouncing and splashing as it comes. Keeping cool.

And now, looking downstream. More fishermen; behind the trees are another half-dozen.

From what an avid fisherman tells me, nobody's catching any fish at this time of day, but the water is cool and the river is peaceful.

Above the river, on the bridge, the sun was baking my head and shoulders. I crossed and hurried into the bush. Photos tomorrow.

Worth waiting for

Sometimes procrastination pays off. I had been intending to follow the trail that goes upstream along the Campbell River to a suspension bridge, but the summer went by too quickly, and here we are at the end of September already, with uncertain weather and busy schedules. This Tuesday, I found myself at the north end of town with my errands done, the sun shining, and several free hours before the evening activities, so I went looking for the trail head.

And it was the perfect day for it. Sunshine and shadow, deep browns and eye-watering yellows, the rumble of the highway above on one side, the river alternately murmuring or roaring on the other, as it ambled between islands or leapt over rocks in a deep channel. And an intriguing medley of scents; spicy evergreens, nutty mushrooms, dying skunk cabbages, crunchy, tangy maple leaves underfoot, and once, half a dead fish, left behind perhaps by a surprised bear. (I found several piles of bear scat, but it was dry and scentless.)

Near the starting point. A well-maintained trail. The river is on my right.

Here the river is shallow, but the current is strong in spots. I met several fishermen, none with fish so far. The river is home to several species of salmon and trout.

Further upstream, logs and rocks make a dam and a calm pool, glowing where the sun shines on it.

Looking straight up; green leaves, yellow leaves. And blue-green evergreens.

Another quiet pool, with a maple leaf floating slowly downstream.

In deeper shadow, sunlight picks out a few orange leaves.

Just trees, with their yellowing leaves.

Looking upstream. The trail goes up this shady side, then crosses and comes downstream in the sunshine.

The circuit, trailhead to trailhead, upstream and back down the far side, is about 4 km. long. A couple of women I met on the trail said it would take about an hour and a half to walk. (Plus another 1/2 km hike to get back to the car.) But I was poking along, looking at mushrooms and spider webs; it would take me much longer. Too long for that day. I turned back after the first kilometre; I'll be back soon, at least to reach the bridge.

Canyonview trail. I walked the south side from the parking lot to the next marker. There is another bridge further upstream, unmarked.

Some of the mushrooms, tomorrow.

Speaking of sandstone

I've been meaning to talk about a magical place:

Freshwater rivulet on sandstone

And can't quite express how it takes me. I'll make an attempt at it tomorrow.

Slow river, with distant sandpipers

Little Campbell River, Semiahmoo Reserve:

I'm recovering from the cold/flu/something or other, but I'm still too headachey to blog. See you tomorrow!

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Ladner Harbour Park: the itinerary

The other day, Hugh, at Rock, Paper, Lizard, reported on an outing to Ladner Harbour Park; it was lousy with woodpeckers, he said, and the hummingbirds were buzzing over the lagoon. We couldn't resist. Sunday afternoon, we headed down there.

We started at the far end of the sewage lagoon, where the hummingbirds had been. Everything was quiet. No buzzing hummers, no redwing blackbirds, no chattering sparrows, even.

At this time of year, the wetlands are clothed in mud colours; drab browns and greys. There is no softness to the land. Blackberry canes and scratchy shrubs alternate with rustling stands of last year's cattails. Dead grasses sprawl in oozy mud. Kayakers in the waterways provide occasional flashes of colour.

White kayak, yellow jacket

Not a kayak.

Cattail fluff, blowing away

Over the marsh, two hawks patrolled; one, small and elegant, with a white tail, flew in that characteristic "flap-flap-flap, coast, flap-flap-flap, coast" pattern; the other, a large red hawk, sped along in a straight line, making a beeline for somewhere else. When they were gone, a flock of ducks goofed around in the air, going nowhere.

We walked around the lagoon, and passed the "civilized" part of the park, and took the path through the cottonwood forest. And yes, there were woodpeckers.


This flicker was digging a nest hole high in a topless snag. It was deep enough already that he would disappear inside, except for the very tip of a tailfeather. After a few seconds, he backed out, posed, dropped his chip, and dove back inside. We took umpteen photos, all of his silhouette.

A few steps further on, a brown creeper started up a cottonwood just a few feet from us. After the manner of his kind, he spiralled around to the far side the minute we'd got the cameras focussed. Still, we'd seen him, and fairly close-up.

Cottonwoods, far above. Probably lousy with woodpeckers. We heard them.

We took the trail out to the viewing platform at the end of the spit, took the wrong turn at the fork, and ended up on muddy marsh, with a view over the river. Those black spots in the water aren't ducks; they're deadheads. But there's an eagle's nest far across the water.


Then back through the forest behind the office, and on to the road. We followed the road back past the harbour where we saw the mallard hybrids and a fishing heron.

Awkward pose.

Grasses beside the canal.

We never saw the owl, nor its nest. But all the way back along the canal, we were treated to a red-wing blackbird song-fest; the males, busily staking out their territory before the females arrive, and by the sound of it, very pleased with themselves.

And here's a bird we never expected to see in the bush:

Free-range chicken.

And this is for Hugh's collection: this one must have died of old age.

R.I.P.

What else we saw in the park, the green stuff, will wait till tomorrow.

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In like a lamb ...

... out like a lion. So they say. March started for us, with sunny, warm days. I left my jacket at home.

And now ... does this look "lionish" to you?

Blackie Spit, March 30th.

Appearances are deceptive. The wind was blowing; chill and strong, so strong it pushed me along the beach, willy nilly. Facing it, I could barely breathe. I couldn't stand still to take photos; I rocked back and forth in the wind unless I was holding on to a fence or bench. My fingers went numb.

In spite of the flying branches along our streets and the invisible hand pushing the car here and there on the highway, we had gone down to Blackie Spit. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the tide was out; it would be a good time to explore the lower reaches of the beach.

The beginning of Blackie Spit, at low tide.

Ah, but look there, far down the beach; see the whitecaps?


Blackie Spit is a hook forming a protected bay at the inner end of Boundary Bay, at the outlet of the Nicomekl river and the Serpentine, both slow-moving, gentle streams. The water is shallow all the way across the inlet, and at low tide, exposes wide mud flats. Only in the centre of the Nicomekl channel is there depth enough for boats.

It's a quiet spot, where waterfowl of all sorts dabble in the stream and sleep on the mud. Usually they do.

Brown water in front; the Nicomekl. Then mud. Then the blue line that marks the Serpentine.

Here's that quiet water, day before yesterday:

The Nicomekl, disturbed.

Four ducks bounced through the waves. A seagull tried to walk along the shore; most of the time he was moving sideways. He found a clam, and flew up to drop it on the rocks to break it open. The wind blew him backwards, and he missed his aim. He struggled back to the clam, flew up and dropped it again three times while I watched, missing the rocks every time. I've never seen that happen before. Around the bend, in the shelter of the headland, a few seagulls and an eagle rested.

We had the beach almost entirely to ourselves. Farther inshore, three teenage girls played at leaning on the wind; a car parked, a couple of women got out, then quickly got back in and drove away.

Empty beach.


Empty headland.


Empty benches.

And it was beautiful, exhiliarating. The air smelled fresh and salty. The sky looked as if it had been just re-painted, piled with new cotton clouds. And our legs and lungs got a thorough workout.

A lion, but a friendly lion.

And April? Isn't it supposed to be spring? Then why is it snowing tonight?

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Water, water everywhere.

On the beach, the water is in front of us, and sometimes underfoot. At New Westminster Quay, it is everywhere. But our feet stay dry.

There's the river, of course:

B&W. Tug and goose.

And each building on the landward side has its own cement-bound pool, where ducks paddle in the reflected light.

Inner "courtyard".


On the lip.


In the back alley, the water is shady and green with algae.


A mallard stirs up the reflections.


"If I can't see you, you can't see me!"


Fountains break up the colours.


Can you find the duck?


Pigeon feathers, circling the drain.


Red buildings make the water at least look warm.


Back by the river, the sun shines, briefly.


Homeward bound.


Water underground, under control.

And it's still too cold for flowers. Crocuses and daffodils, and some first-year witch hazels. That's it. We'll try again in a couple of weeks.

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Fishing hole

The Fraser is a busy river, has been since before the white man found it, in the days when war and trade canoes plied the waters from the coast to the canyon. Back then, of course, the shoreline was green. These days, except for a few park reserves and housing development frontages, both shores (all 4 shores, sometimes, where there are islands) from Mary Hill to Steveston and Ladner are piled with storage containers, choked with log booms, busy with factories and warehouses and shipping yards and repair garages and junkyards, scattered with the leavings of a century of industry; smoky, greasy, grungy, rusty; the bird songs overpowered by miscellaneous beepings, tootings, rumblings, clankings.

A nest of rubber and plastic "snakes".

We drove down River Road, dwarfed among all those trucks, to see if the river still lives. And in between industrial sites, we found this:

A short trail leads to a fishing spot.


Straight across from us.


Old, waterlogged boards, and signs of a recent visitor.


Rocks and drowned grasses.


Grass still holding its own.


The spit at the end of Huston Road. Pier belonging to a construction company.


A tiny sandy beach. Fine, clean sand.


Not all the sand is on the shore.


Behind the beach, scrubby bush has captured water-borne logs. Moss covers the oldest. Here, a small fern has found a foothold.


Tiny white shelf mushrooms.


And a pair of mallards.

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