another blast from the past

Posted on January 20, 2011 by jdavidcox

I was injured in a boating accident up the BC coast a few (6) years ago. Not too badly. I am fine now. But, it was somewhat dramatic and scary at the time. I wrote this up:

My wife and I are constructing a small wilderness cabin up the inside passage of the BC coast on a sparsely populated and un-serviced island. It was around noon on a hot July day when we left our building site for a trip to the local store. We are located ten nautical miles Northeast-ish from the nearest settlement with roads and telephones, 30 miles and a ferry ride East-ish from the nearest small town and 2 miles South from our nearest neighbour. It is isolated by our standards. Remote by any standards.

I am 56. My wife is 52. We are basically healthy and relatively capable people but still citified to the extent that both of us have soft hands and a single day’s hard labour results in extremely sore muscles. We have more fat than muscle, more optimism than experience and more patience than skill. Fortunately, we like what we are doing and have each other to share it with. I don’t think it gets any better.

That day, my wife and I were riding along in our inflatable boat at full speed – at about 20 knots. Sally was at the helm. I was sitting up near the bow. I was sitting forward because equalized weight distribution helps level the trim of the boat and allows it to ride better. I was leaning in towards the center of the boat with my bum on the front tubes, my weight on my elbows placed on my knees. Most of my weight was well inboard. I thought I was sitting safely.

But I straightened to look at something on shore at the exact same instant we hit an inexplicably large wave. The momentum of straightening my posture together with the deceleration of the boat hitting the wave sent me over the bow. It was instant. I remember thinking as I went over, “Damn. The propeller!”

Then there was a huge ‘bang!’ and I remember thinking again, ‘Damn! The propeller.” As the boat passed over me, I was twice struck by the spinning blades attached to the 20 hp outboard. One blade cut along the part line of my hair and the second cut almost at right angles near the crown of my head. It felt like a single hammer blow.

A few seconds later, I bobbed to the surface with a view of the inflatable still moving away from me. I could see Sally’s back. That was not a good moment. She seemed so distant. And heading the wrong way. I could already feel hot liquid pouring from the top of my head. The pain was obvious and extreme but not incapacitating. I was conscious but not overly coherent. I remember instinctively calling out, “Oh, my God!”

It occurred to me at that moment that ‘Oh, my God!’ was not going to convey the appropriate instructions that I wanted to convey to Sally, so I took a deep breath, collected my thoughts and yelled again. This time I had purposefully formed the sentences in my head for specific instruction on turning the boat around and how to get me back in the boat. And so I let out at the top of my lungs, “…………….Oh, my God!” Again.

This involuntary and repetitive exclamation struck me as mildly amusing at the time. It seemed as if I was destined to yell prayers instead of instructions. Just as well, I thought, considering the situation. So, I shut up and began to swim towards the finally-stopped boat. It was about 75 yards away. It seemed like a mile.

As I swam I became more and more aware of my circumstance. I was fully clothed, injured and bleeding. I also seem to recall not being very calm. My immediate rescue was likely but medical assistance was not. We were a long way from anywhere. I was particularly aware of the temperature difference I was experiencing. I was in 50-degree water and my body was rapidly becoming colder.

In the meantime, of course, hot blood was pouring from my head and down my face. My head was covered in a gooey, sticky-warmth and my body was getting colder. Very strange. And not just a little disconcerting. I started to worry.

Sally had re-started the boat and covered the distance to me within seconds. She was very good. She could have easily come too fast or missed me altogether. Instead, she drifted up to me neatly, with the engine put in neutral at just the right time. We connected the first time we tried. After a few futile attempts to get me into the boat, I suggested that I hold on to the rope gunwale and that she simply drag me to the beach as quickly as she could. I adopted the harpooned whale position alongside which came somewhat naturally in the situation and Sally took the extra precaution of lashing me to the boat. It was a good idea. I felt as if I was losing consciousness.

Being dragged through the water increases heat loss. It was scary cold. After what seemed like an hour but was more like 10 minutes, we got to shore and I rolled into the boat holding Sally’s just-disrobed t-shirt to my head to stanch the flow of blood. I had inadvertently wrapped a button or zipper against my head and for the next two hours felt what I thought was a skull fragment as I held the shirt in place. In retrospect, that silly error was the worst part. I kept expecting brain matter to ooze out whenever I moved the cloth.

We drove ten minutes to the nearest neighbour and they called the Coast Guard. 45 minutes later two Coast Guard out-station, rapid response teams were on site and 15 minutes after that a helicopter arrived. Within the next hour I was at the Campbell River hospital and soon after that I was examined and stitched up. They even gave me a sandwich.

I was lucky. It seems the propeller had neatly sliced through my scalp in two separate places for about 12 inches of laceration but had not cut deeply into my skull. There was no skull fragment – only a bloodied button and an overly vivid imagination.

That kind of precision cut is not an easy thing to imagine. Try pinching your own scalp and see how much skin you get. Then wonder how two blades could have sliced only skin deep without cutting much deeper. I was more than lucky. I was saved miraculously. I guess I am also hard headed.

I was fortunate in more ways, too. I met fabulous neighbours (Theresa was an angel) who all came to my aid. People I did not know stayed to help. Blankets were volunteered and comfort was extended wherever possible. The Coast Guard personnel were perfect – just like you want them to be. They were proficient in the first aid and skills they manifested but also in their caring and humanity. They were not only skilled professionals but they were also decent human beings.

As I was being carried aloft by the e-vac helicopter, the remaining Coast Guard staff turned to assist my traumatized and worried wife. They took care of our boat and got Sally to the nearby town where the hospital was. They were excellent.

The helicopter crew and the hospital staff picked up where the Coast Guard left off. They, too, performed and behaved way beyond my expectations. In fact, I was catching a ferry back to my cabin three hours later. I looked a bit ridiculous in my blood-stained bandage and I certainly felt a bit ‘whacked’ but, all in all, I was intact and doing fine.

I remember entering the ferry passenger waiting room with a dazed look on my face and wearing a weird looking head bandage-cum-turban. Sally had gone to buy the tickets. I entered a room with about ten others already seated and waiting for the ferry. Some looked up at my arrival. They looked horrified. Blood was seeping through the bandage and trickling down my neck. I hadn’t noticed it.

Tipping my turban forward, I said, “I am a leader of a new island cult. Anybody wanna join?” Nobody laughed. Nobody even acknowledged my existence. The message conveyed clearly to me was that they knew a nut-case when they saw one. And after a few minutes, everyone left. They decided to wait outside. I don’t blame them.

I guess my echoing laughter at my own joke didn’t help allay their concerns. They felt safer outside. Sally did, too, now that I think about it.

As we crossed the last body of water in a chartered boat, I held Sally close for a long time and reflected on the day. I was very thankful to be there. “You know, Sal, with the exception of the propeller hitting me, it was a pretty good day!”

Call of the wild

Posted on January 20, 2011 by jdavidcox

Wildlife plays a big role out here. We are always captivated whenever we have a close encounter with one of the ‘really neat’ creatures but, of course, they are all pretty neat.

Our most frequent fliers are the ravens. They come every day. Jack and Liz. Jack is bigger than Liz by about 20% but their personalities are what allows us to differentiate between them. Liz is a bit ‘skittish’ and ready to take flight at anything. Jack is way cool.

They come to the corner of our deck railing where I made a small ‘landing’ on which we place appropriate table scraps. Jack gets most it but Liz gets her share. I can call them. I go out on the deck and make goofy raven-like ‘caws’ and, in a minute or two, they show up. Typically, Jack sits on the landing and Liz sits in a nearby tree. We dole out a lump or two of something which Jack scoops up and then Liz comes in to see what’s left.

They like cheese. They prefer meat. They don’t like prawns and we never feed them bread or ‘filler’. More than once they have had salmon, steak and even a whole egg each. That looks weird. They don’t break it, they just pick it up and fly away.

They are grateful for this handout, especially when they have chicks in the nest. And we know this because, every now and then, Jack leaves us a ‘present’ of something wretched (semi-digested mouse?) or a grouping of small bones. Once he brought Sally a sprig of leaves with berries on it, like Mistletoe. There is no question – he is reciprocating our hospitality.

This week – for a change – I tried to feed the ravens from my hand. Direct. If I lay myself out, splayed over the deck railing like I had been stepped on by a giant and, stretching as far as I can, Jack will just snatch the rather long cut of cheese I hold out. This tactic went on for a few days and then Liz got in on the act. Then, so did Sal. Finally, Sally could feed Jack while standing normally. This may not be ecologically correct or whatever. The Sierra club may be grinding their teeth but, for us, it was kind of special.

And, speaking of which……………

There are the wolves. We don’t see the wolves. But we hear them. They are ‘up island’ and we can only hear them on some windless night or hear about them from our neighbours.

And the latest news is pretty neat. One neighbour has a wildlife camera sitting in a tree near her home. The house is on the ‘wilderness highway’, the place where the animals can most easily pass from island to island. Lately she has caught a few wolves on film. But the most interesting part is that the neighbours also have two large dogs. VERY large dogs. Mastiff/Rottweilers. Probably around 150 pounds each. It seems that the alpha male of the local wolf pack dwarfs them.

“He seemed twice as big as one of our dogs. He was black. And he was huge!”

I doubt that that means the wolf was 300 pounds. That’s a small bear. But it does sound like this big male is close to or over 200 pounds. That is a big wolf.

And they are an effective, flourishing pack. They know their business. Last summer, another of our neighbours was anchored in a little bay up the channel taking a lunch break from their busy day of log salvaging. While sitting in the boat, they heard a big splash behind them – not far away. They turned to see a deer lighting out for the far shore. It had just launched itself into the bay. The reason became obvious pretty fast. The wolf pack was right behind it. Within seconds the bulk of the pack had leapt in, caught the deer and redirected it by twisting it’s neck back to the shore. They then dispatched the hapless doe and enjoyed her al fresco on the spot.

There you are having your tea and cookies and a deer is turned into lunch before your very eyes!

Of course, that doesn’t happen every day but things like that do happen often enough each season to make you keep a watchful eye and we are never disappointed.

Things just happen out here.

Niki called

Posted on January 18, 2011 by jdavidcox

It was my birthday a few days ago and last night Niki called. We didn’t talk. The call went to the message device. It was just as well. Niki can’t speak English. I can’t speak Cantonese. But she calls me every year on my birthday anyway. It is very nice.

Niki was one of the kids at the school we volunteered at. She was 15 or so at the time and looked and acted like she was 12. She is a pretty smart cookie and has remarkable artistic skills but she was also shy and disinclined to ‘study’ English. So we didn’t really talk much. None, actually. She just liked Sally and me and hung around despite not really understanding us at all. Niki is walking proof that ‘good vibes’ are enough for a friendship to develop.

Niki is probably about 18 now and likely still looks less than 15. She is the eldest of three daughters being raised by a single mom in Hong Kong. All the kids are cute as buttons. But not so much the mom. Mom looks a bit like Ernest Borgnine but a smidge homelier. But she is very, very nice and she is an excellent mom.

When we were last there, we all had dinner together. The incident was described in the China Monologues. Write to me if you want 50 pages of drivel about teaching kids and being an old white guy in Hong Kong. Nothing like three mashed potatoes with your pizza……..(you had to be there).

We are often ‘touched’ by our friends in Hong Kong. Gifts, notes, phone calls, e-mails. Some, of course, are closer to us than others but all are very, very kind and generous. Being there was a wonderful experience at the time and made even more wonderful by the continuance of the friendships we made.

The East is the East and the West is the West and the two are still very unlikely to ever meet in any real sense but the differences and the distances don’t seem to hinder the relationships. And we are the very lucky recipients of that.

Country life and all the entrails

Posted on January 18, 2011 by jdavidcox

One more from the ‘past’. We stayed at the hobby farm of neighbours for a few weekends while constructing the boat shed in the summer of 2003.

I am learning more than I need to know….

The lambs were late this year. Seems they normally come in April but the local batch came in May. The last two came in the early morning hours, with ‘Ewey’ calling for help and the midwife-owner, Genny, waking out of a deep sleep to rush out in the nude to attend to her.

“Roy! Come suck!” she yelled. “Come suck! Come suck!” Roy (the mid-husband?) was still in the den with earphones on his head listening to the radio. It is a testimony to the combined lung-power of the two extremely focused females in the yard that he heard their cries and eventually looked out the window. He saw what he later described as a bone-chilling scene straight from ‘The Exorcist meets Deliverance’.

His wife was squatting ‘starkers’ behind the business end of a distressed ewe trying to catch the mucous covered, bloody bag of sticks that would soon become Lamby-pie #1. Lambie-pie #2 was soon to follow. Ahhhh, country life…

Actually, not all those who ‘go country’ go all the way like Roy and Genny. Many just buy plaid shirts and a pick-up truck. Add a dog, a barbecue, a case of beer, a little sunblock and ‘presto-change-o’, city-guy morphs into country-guy. Or so he thinks. That’s what I thought, anyway. But others make more of a commitment.

At one end of the spectrum are a number of country types who, like some snow-boarders and skiers, go extreme. Out of bounds. Bananas.

These ‘folk’ often subscribe to Countryside magazine, an Amish oriented periodical fixated on the diseases and bodily excretions of domestic animals. This magazine will do a five-page feature on ‘hoof rot’ or ‘pig nose’ or ‘mucous plugs’ – or whatever the readership thinks is current and hip.

There are few pictures in this magazine for obvious reasons. But there are still too many.

Committed Countryside subscribers not only ‘birth’ their lambs, they make sure their ewes get impregnated properly. Don’t ask – suffice to say that anyone squeamish about putting their arms in places where the ‘sun don’t shine’, should not subscribe to this life-style or even to the magazine, for that matter.

I subscribe, though. But I confess, it’s for reasons other than animal husbandry or ‘getting down’ with the Amish. I subscribe because it’s hysterical. In one article the expert contributor advised against some form of sheep dip because it tended to ‘make your toads go soft.’

Think about that. Frankly, I have always expected toads to be soft and I had no idea that ‘too soft’ was a bad thing. I was wrong. Firm toads, we are told, are much better. But ‘better for what?’ I have no idea. And, anyway, isn’t softness in a toad pretty subjective – and best left to the discretion (or indiscretion) of another toad?

By the way, there was a reason why Genny was shouting “Come suck!” When lambs are born their first attempts at breathing often result in a blob of birthing mucous getting sucked up their nasal passage thus making life difficult if not impossible. The ‘real’ Amish-style homesteader rectifies the situation by immediately planting their own mouth firmly over the lamb’s nose and making like a Hoover (don’t forget, the Amish don’t employ electricity so real Hoovers aren’t an option).

Lambie-pie survives but, if it were me doing the sucking, my own future would be very much in doubt. Dinner and a movie is definitely out of the question.

But it doesn’t end there……….oh no. Wanna know how to impregnate a cow? Hint: it takes a bull and it takes a cow. But it also seems that a middle-man is necessary and a pail is involved. Later, the arm of the exceptionally brave ‘cowtus interruptus’ completes the act when, presumably, he is in the mood. It’s claimed that it’s more efficient this way.

Honestly, it’s all way too much. I like animals and all that, but this form of intimacy is beyond me. I don’t want any animals around that can blackmail me. I want to be able to eat dinner without boiling my arm first. I prefer to see the front end of animals and, should the business end present itself, I would prefer it be in a state of rest, not anticipation.

Suffice to say, Roy did not come too quickly when called to “Come suck!” Instead, he shouted instructions.

Apparently he had learned that lamb mucous (or any mucous, I suppose) can sometimes be expelled by centrifugal force. In this method the homesteader is obliged to grasp all four lamb hooves and spin the new-born not unlike figure skaters do (head furthest or else you defeat the purpose) and, if all goes well, phlegm will fly. It is further advised to maintain a firm grip on Lambie-pie and ensure plenty of space for either the flung mucous or the suddenly airborne lamb.

But not all of the country extremists are as committed to the well being of the stock as Genny. As the story went, Roy,who was wearing plaid (a housecoat) at the time was also wondering what the price of lamb was going to be this year.

It is a jungle out there.

part 2 in the mini retrospective

Posted on January 17, 2011 by jdavidcox

In the past episode below, I gave the main reason for retreating to the woods – it was growing dissatisfaction with urban life. This is about our ‘making the change.’

When we arrived on site in May of 2004, we set up a temporary home in our previously constructed boatshed. The boatshed is 12 x 16 and sports a generous shelf-cum-overhang at one end. This was our sleeping loft. I remember distinctly that first night:

Sally had arrived from the city in a cute, matching two-piece skirt and jacket direct from her last day at work. Given that it is an eight hour run, she didn’t get to the end of the road on the nearest island until about midnight. I was picking her up four miles down channel in our 13 foot inflatable boat. The plan was a good one except for the weather factor. It was a howling gale.

Of course, being A-type personalities and having no other place to stay, we headed off into the teeth of the gale loaded with supplies and into a screaming, black-as-coal night. It was a smidge intimidating. When we arrived, we were soaked through and freezing. A couple of hours later we were tucked into our double sleeping bag in the loft. Still shivering.

Even though we had built the boatshed the summer before, we hadn’t quite finished it. It was un-insulated and without heat. That was not so much the problem in May as was the fact that the window for the loft where we slept was cut out but as yet uninstalled. The gale was blowing in over our heads and doing so with alarming intensity. I hugged her closer.

As I held on to my shivering wife, I noticed that her jiggling had changed from rapid vibrations to larger spasms and, fearing the worst, I asked her if she was alright.

At first she didn’t answer but the jerking motion continued. Finally, she shrieked into convulsive laughter, “I can’t believe it! Here we are in the middle of a gale in a dinko boat shed miles from anywhere and we don’t even have a window!” And then she started to laugh even more hysterically.

At first I was somewhat alarmed. Freaked out, actually. I was, I thought, a bit too close to an insane person for comfort. Clearly she’s flipped. I thought that we both were going to die in some kind of an involuntary murder-suicide pact, a plan she was in the very process of hatching as I cuddled her like the innocent fool I was.

But the mood changed again and then she was simply laughing, giggling and grinning like Jack Nicholson in the Shining. I felt a bit better but didn’t take my eyes off her for a second. Lunatics can turn on you, you know. Mind you, giggling is infectious and, after awhile, there we were – two fifty plus year olds howling at our predicament and sharing a joke with nature at our own happy expense. It was a pretty good beginning.

But before I tell you more about the beginning, let me first say a word about circumstance. Circumstance, in this remote-cabin context, is the term used to describe where you end up after deciding to ‘do it’ (build). That includes topography, weather, distance, the presence of life sustaining staples like water, food, toilet paper and scotch.

Circumstances can change with guests, visitors, authority figures, neighbours dogs and various wildlife. Especially mice. It can and does include logistics such as the weight of items, the availability of materials, the functioning of tools and the inevitable shortages of things necessary to continue – like more scotch and toilet paper.

Chronic or enduring circumstances include finances, personal health, mood, relationships, fatigue and the never ending quest for clean socks.

When building, all previously familiar ‘normal life’ circumstances cease to be neutral or benign influences and inevitably morph into unique challenges to survival. There isn’t a single positive circumstance (maybe sunshine) that comes easily when building a cabin on a remote island by yourself and the negative ones present themselves with surprising regularity.

If you are planning to build, consider your circumstances carefully.

Consider going to the bathroom, for instance – that should be simple enough. Most of us have the procedure down pat, as it were. But what about going to the bathroom when you don’t have one? What about answering nature’s call outside at night when it comes with in a howling gale? Do you know what happens to toilet paper when used in a torrential downpour? Think for a minute about going to the bathroom outside when you have bad knees? Think about the social etiquette involved when squatting on the beach and a group tour of 14 kayakers slips around the rock you are hiding behind. Do you return greetings or pretend to be dead?

Circumstances, of course, can and do change even in the city. You may have to use the restroom in a restaurant or another person’s home. But there are standards to the urban circumstance. One has expectations. All urban bathrooms come with privacy, washing facilities and the all important seat. There are no standards in the remote circumstance. Life may be a box of chocolates in town but in the woods, there isn’t even a box.

I have to stop myself. I can do ‘circumstances’ for pages. Suffice to say: cabin building circumstances are weird, variable, often embarrassing and almost always uncomfortable. Sometimes dangerous. Even if you sit down and plan well, you will have missed more than half of what you are going to face. And, to be honest, if you knew fully in advance about what you were undertaking, you’d likely not do it.

So, let’s begin properly, shall we?

In the beginning, make a plan. From that plan draw up a budget and a schedule. Anyone contemplating building a cabin or even having one built should take the time to plan, design, accumulate stuff, schedule work and, of course, set aside the right amount of money.

Then take that plan and bury it in the back yard – where the sun don’t shine.

“Why?” Because it will never happen! Absolutely, positively, whatever you plan for is the one thing that you can be assured will never happen! Not the schedule, not the budget not even the things you have purchased in advance. It is all a fantasy. Fuggedaboudit.

But do it anyway.

A bit more catch-up………..

Posted on January 17, 2011 by jdavidcox

My wife and I were typical in so many ways. Two kids, two cars, too many phones. A house in the cul-de-sac, a busy social life and a juggling act with debt and equity to rival that of Enron (except on a nano-mini scale). It may have been commonplace but it was no fun and, it was destroying my ‘will to live’. Turns out I did not like normal life.

I don’t mean to sound overly dramatic but it became evident to me sometime after my fiftieth birthday that I was living to work and no longer working to live. My choices didn’t seem to be my own. I no longer felt that I had possession of my own life. My house, my job, my circumstance (all my own choice, I admit) now seemed to own me.

And it seemed so pointless. Not depressing, so much, as just kind of…..pointless.

In a rash moment I decided to leave the city, build a cabin and lead a more healthy life than the one I had been living. ‘Hippy Redux’ I called it (in my head). I wanted out and I could finally see the forest AND the trees (in my head). Mind you, a husband’s rash moment is his wife’s prerogative to overrule. I was told to ‘Get over it, dear. Play a bit more golf, why don’t you? I am sure this Dan’l Boone phase will pass. Why don’t you get a red sports car and sneak around with a cute secretary like everyone else?”

By the time my handicap was down to 14 and the kids were in college, the same ennui had spread to my wife. Dissatisfaction, it seems, is contagious and I confess I did little to keep my dreams of exodus in quarantine. About two years after being told to ‘Get over it’, my wife announced that she, too, was fed up racing with the rats and, with a flourish, she handed me my cabin file. “Let’s do it!”

And so we did. In the late Spring of 2004 we sold the house, moved to our property up the coast and began to build. ‘Course, we didn’t know HOW to build but that was part of the fun. Or, better put, was supposed to be part of the fun. It was also supposed to be a challenge and a venue for personal growth.

I used to think in phrases made popular by magazine articles.

Thinking this way was also a rationalization for the fact that we didn’t have the money to hire others. Didn’t matter, anyway. When you are this far out, they’re aren’t any others to hire. Rich or poor, when there are no others nearby, you build on your own.

We consciously chose and planned to build a 950 square foot, 1.5 story fairly simple cabin. We ended up building a more complicated 1200 square foot expanded version of the original concept because, well, the original design had some shortcomings easily solved by more floorspace. And, of course, more money. Needless to say, we stretched the budget.

OK, so there is now no more of even a semblance of budget, let alone a stretched one. But the house is nice.

2004 and 2005 was an experience-filled learning curve into the wonderful world of dangerous tools, local characters, Home Depot and the vague, jargon-filled, inexact world of construction. We ‘logged’ trees, poured concrete, carried several tons back and forth across the rocky, moss-covered slope and generally got fitter than we had been in twenty years. Mind you, we ached so much that fitness was a distant and unappreciated byproduct at the time.

Why something so basic to human habitation has to be so difficult, mystifying and expensive is beyond me but we did it and both my wife and I can now ‘talk building’ with the rest of those weird monosyllabic worker guys. Actually, she can talk the talk and walk the walk and look pretty attractive while doing it. I just mumble, grunt and limp.

Naturally, they consult her more than me. I think it’s the saucy but confident way she wears her cute little half-scale tool belt. Think ‘garter belt’ with tools attached.

One day, when I was carrying sheets of drywall from our utility trailer along the wharf, down the ramp and onto our boat, two big fellows stopped to lend a hand. They picked up a package and followed me. When we got to the boat, I told them to pass the sheets to Sally who would put them in place. I passed mine first. And so they did. Sally weighs 125 pounds. She handled all those sheets with relative ease. On the way back up the ramp, one of the guys said to the other, “Did you see the pipes on that chick (she was 54 at the time)?!”

You know you have come a long way, baby, when the wharf rats are checking out your pipes (‘pipes’ are, for the uninitiated, arms and are usually noted only when the arms in question ripple with muscle.)

The way I remember it, they looked at me and decided I needed help. Then, a few seconds later, they looked at her and commented admiringly on her pipes. I think that says it all.

Well, it doesn’t say it all, really. The story is still being told. Every day is better than the last. The weather raged around us this winter and, instead of it delaying my schedule or holding up traffic, it was simply something to experience, live with and enjoy. I sat in my chair in front of the fire and hours would go by. Happily.

We chose not to bring a TV. Haven’t had one now for five or so years. Don’t miss it at all. If I miss anything, it is the time I spent watching it. Here we are in the middle of the forest, miles from anywhere and I have not yet experienced a boring moment. The cul-de-sac was the battlefield on which I waged war against boredom and was consistently defeated. Nowadays, a good fire, a strong wind and a beautiful partner make me the luckiest person on the planet.

Who knew?

ARMCHAIR CONTRACTORS

Posted on January 16, 2011 by jdavidcox

Despite knowing little if anything at all about just about everything, I tend to be opinionated (if not obnoxious) about things. Especially building cabins. I sometimes even think I know what I am talking about (if my wife isn’t present to correct me). It’s not an attractive feature of my personality but, like all human frailties, I can’t help myself and I do find some solace with the company of billions of like-minded fools who act as I do. We’re armchair contractors.

Worse though, I tend to share my opinions and ignorance like an act of generosity. “No, really! Help yourself. I have lots more advice where that came from!”

You’d be amazed at how infrequent are the requests for my advice. On anything.

On reflection, and with a rare encounter with self-awareness, I am inclined to believe that somehow ‘do-it-yourself-ism’ aggravates this ‘know-it-all’ condition. But I could be wrong about that (heh heh, only joking!).

There is nothing worse for a professional contractor to hear than those opinions of the amateur next door. Well, my doctor winces a lot when I mention my medical research on the internet so maybe it’s a universal problem for experts and knowledgeable people.

I wouldn’t know anything about that.

The latest poor soul to fall victim to my misplaced sense of expertise is my soon-to-be immediate neighbour a few thousand meters northwest. He is building a cabin.

The man is in his sixties, successful in life and proven capable in any number of endeavours, not the least of which was marrying a capable, competent and successful wife and spawning progeny equal in abilities to their parents. They are a can-do family.

“So, I guess you have everything organized for the big build coming?” I ask with Machiavellian delight. I know he doesn’t. How can he? He hasn’t consulted me (or my wife) and the task is a daunting one. It sure daunted me. I can still feel the daunts all over my body and in my bones.

“Yep. We’re good to go.” I search the words for double meaning paying special heed to vibrations of fear, insecurity, confusion or doubt. I remember those feelings well and want them shared. But, against all odds, he seems to really mean it.

Still, confidence, expertise, ability and a healthy bank account are not enough to deter my generosity of information. “Which barge service you using?”

“Not. Using a helicopter instead.”

Hmmmmmmmm….this is getting harder. “What’s your foundation?”

“Got a special system. Should go up in an afternoon.”

“Got a good genset?” “Got two.”

“Well, you know, mixing concrete up here is pretty hard work. Need any help?” “No. Got a new mixer. I wore out the old one!”

I may be a fool but I am not so much of an obtuse fool and it seemed to me that his answers were better than my questions. Maybe I had better shut up and just watch.

That nanosecond of self awareness thankfully passed.

“So, ever built a cabin before?” I ask with the slightly pathetic tone of a guy wanting to tell his story. I thought it might work. It doesn’t.

“Yep. Several. But my contractor has built dozens. He’s coming out with his crew to build to the lock-up stage. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I had been dismissed. “No. No. I’m good. Good luck to you. Doesn’t sound like you’ll need it, though. Sounds like you are ready. Good for you. See ya!” And then I leave much like I would leave the driving range when the local golf pro comes out to hit balls. There is really no point in hanging around. He doesn’t need me.

Not yet, anyway.

Now!

Posted on January 16, 2011 by jdavidcox

I was specifically asked (I swear) for an ‘oldie goldie’. This is from a few years ago but, today, it all came back again. So, in that sense, it is current.

One of the weird differences between living in the woods and the city is one’s increased ability to be more present in the moment. This altered state of being may just be due to aging and failing memory but I prefer to think of it as the beginning of some kind of better-late-than-never-enlightenment. I am no philosopher but going to the woods at least increases awareness of the senses and probably, by extension, one’s sense of being.

God knows I am overdue for some consciousness raising. For the most part I have lived my life in the dark recesses of thought, worry, planning and cursing the myriad and inevitable screw-ups associated with those activities. Plus I commuted. Put more poetically, I didn’t spend very much time smelling the roses on my way to or from work. Too much to do, I guess.

Of course, the counter to the ‘too-much-to-do’ excuse for being unconscious is that I have never been busier than I am at the cottage. I have a lot to do. And yet I seem to have more free time for this existential indulgence. Go figure. I must have slipped through a tear in the time-space continuum. “I have time to think therefore I am” (attributed to a modern era Sartre family member).

Or it may be because chopping wood takes time but not a great deal of focused-on-the-work-at-hand-type thinking. Plus, once you get the hang of it, it is difficult to screw up, the surprise of occasional bloodletting notwithstanding. Ergo, more physical time, less worry time – with just a bit of first aid practice now and then to keep your mind on its (and yours) toes.

And that’s a good thing. It is a much healthier state of living. Or it can be. I distinctly recall being so much in my own mind that I could drive twenty miles to an urban appointment without recalling anything I drove past while on the way. I was so deeply committed to what was coming up (or what had happened in the news) that I failed to notice what just went by. How does one live by staying in a media-dominated past and future life without even noticing the present one? It was not hard for me to live that way in the city.

Mind you, a large part of being present in the ‘now’ these days is not having to be present anywhere else. I don’t have to plan ahead. I have few, if any appointments. No one expects me. No deadlines. Hardly anyone calls or, if they do, I am not there to answer the phone. Philosophical question: ‘If a cell-phone rings in the forest does anyone care’?

The easiest way of achieving conscious presence is simply being outside and having all the physical senses wide awake and the usual thoughts turned off. Walking in the woods is a sure fire way of leaving your cares and worries behind. It’s a magical thing.

It’s also humbling. Each step deeper into the forest is like an entry to an empty stage with a huge but quiet and reverential audience. The space is broken only by your own intrusion. You are special only because you are there – no other reason. And, because of that, you become very aware of your own existence. Very profound stuff if you think about it. Which, of course, you shouldn’t do since it defeats the whole effect.

It is not just the magical moments that do it. Weather, too, is a big factor in awareness. In modern lifestyles, we can mostly ignore it and get along to the mall or the office regardless of how much Mother Nature protests. We deny the weather. Not so in the wilds. Out here you can’t ignore Mother’s moods. She is simply too present and omnipresent.

It’s impossible to ignore the ‘now’ when you are in the woods. ’Now’ is big out here. It embraces you. Living even partly feral requires an intimate and immediate awareness of your environment. Fortunately, the surroundings are attractive and beautiful. The present moment is often so enchanting, so totally occupying, you are ravished by it. It is literally a ‘momentous’ love affair with life.

Weird eh?

I have no idea if life really is more meaningful or if my existence is any more enlightened. I haven’t swapped my jeans for a toga-like sari, lost weight, gone bald or acquired a cult or anything really neat like that. Nor can I get into the Lotus position or even a beatific mood. I am pretty happy just to be able to get out of the chair on my own. I have no demonstrably hard evidence of achieving even the outskirts of Nirvana except for my desire to be here – and no where else.

I suspect I am doing well, however, if only because my mind is not so cluttered, my being not so burdened by trivial pursuits and my wife hasn’t left me. It could, of course, just be a later-in-life appreciation for this kind of living run somewhat amok with enthusiasm and excitement. But, if that is what it is, that’s not so bad either.

What is, is, after all.

Who is the moron here, anyway?

Posted on January 13, 2011 by jdavidcox

Is it just me or is the term ‘Emergency Preparedness’ an oxymoron of sorts? I mean, if you are, as they wish you to be, prepared for all the various-but-still-anticipated emergencies, is that not enough to cancel the definition of emergency? If you are prepared for whatever happens, can you actually have an emergency? Wouldn’t the incident experienced be downgraded to simply an inconvenience?

Of course, the other way of thinking is also true – if you have an emergency, God forbid an accident, then by definition you were not prepared. Duh.

But, it’s probably just me, picking nits. It’s just that this current preoccupation with safety and planning for every eventuality seems counter productive somehow. The only thing I have observed directly from all the security and safety measures preached ad nauseum is that less gets done.

I am not suggesting living dangerously – no, not at all. What I am suggesting is that some if not all activities pose some risk. That is life, after all. In fact, I likely cut myself at least once every day while building the house. I still sport bruises, aches, pains and the odd laceration from just getting through the day. WorkSafe BC’s declaration that “there is no such thing as an accident!” would mean, in my opinion, they are in denial.

And that can’t be safe, now can it?

Imagine my surprise when the local Emergency Preparedness Committee came for a visit to our neighbourhood the other day and declared for all to hear that we are all ‘living in a state of emergency’! To be honest, I had already partly dozed off before the introductions were complete so, at first, I wasn’t sure I had heard them correctly. Then, realizing the dire warning, I rose to the occasion and began shrieking and crying for help until my wife settled me down again with a well placed elbow to the diaphragm.

“We usually tell communities to have one week of food and water stored along with batteries and flashlights for emergencies. Extra blankets, a radio and a secure box for your valuables is also good. But, you folks can obviously live for a much greater length of time and are pretty independent as far as your systems go. Can you even have a power failure?”

“Uh, Jim’s old genset is pretty unreliable but everyone else has at least two and he kinda lives in the dark a lot anyway.”

“Do you have water?”

“Lived in BC long, have you?”

The people out here can not only live for as long as six months without ever visiting a store they can and do fix everything that breaks, make parts when they need to and some have even set broken bones using tree-branch splints. These people aren’t sissies.

As the woman said, “You people are living in emergency conditions.”

Why I do not need TV

Posted on January 13, 2011 by jdavidcox

It seems that Freedom is not so much of ‘nothing left to lose’ as it is a function of social constraints or, perhaps, just grey-matter gone gooey in all the rain. Get away from peer group pressure, neighbours and normally accepted/expected behaviour and you will, unfortunately for your spouse and family, find your true self. Being truly yourself can be a surprising thing. Trust me.

As my brother-in-law put it, “rural people aren’t nuts, they are the squirrels.”

The people who live out here in the forest are free to be themselves and many of them have taken to it like a lemming does a cliff. They are certainly eccentric if not over the edge. Some are complete loons (and, of course, in the spirit of the politically correct new tolerances for just about everything, ‘there is nothing wrong with that!’)

Mind you, my opinion on what is goofy is also changing the longer I live out here. I guess I am becoming myself. Apologies to all. I have shifted from my previous (albeit disputed) conventional, Stats-Can-poster-boy-type thinking to contemplating the wild and crazy theories of life, diet, economics, politics, weather and the media (just to name the current top six) normally raised over a cheap bottle of plonk by my new friends and neighbours. No, really – these guys are ‘out there’. Worse, I think I am slowly being converted. I used to just laugh and laugh when they talked to me. Now, I take notes.

We have eccentricities out here for everything. And you have no idea about fad-diets until you have met some of our more outlandish bachelor(ette)s. They will eat anything it seems except what you’d expect to find in a Safeway.

Phil, the fruitarian, showed up last year for a visit and announced that he was a fruitarian and had been for years. “What’s a fruitarian?” I asked. “I only eat fish and berries – like the bears.”

“Phil, bears are omnivorous, like humans. They will eat anything. Anyway, I am sorry to tell you that all we have to offer is ham sandwiches, home-made apple pie and a few cold cokes.”

“Oh! Well, that will be fine. Thanks.” He cleaned the plates and took a coke to go.

Bill was a strict ‘octo-lacto’ vegetarian but we were serving BBQ’d steaks when he dropped in. I had cooked eight of them for the expected number of guests but two canceled. No problem. Bill ate three. Presumably he went back to being a vegetarian the next day. He was no freeloader, mind you. He contributed soymilk, bottled water and a bottle of Omega three essential oils to the dinner. A bar of carob-based chocolate, too. A little known factoid: Octo-lacto vegans like scotch!

But the real eccentricities are saved for politics and economics. On those topics, we reside in Conspiracy county.

“It’s all a plot, a conspiracy. You see, G.W. Bush and the Queen are in on a secret pact with the Swiss banks (substitute ‘pope’, Israelis, Oil cartel, Bill Gates, the Rockefellers, Putin or Scientology for any of the three named above) and they are planning to take over the world!”

“You may be right but they can’t even keep the planes and trains on schedule and most kids under 19 won’t do as they are told under any circumstances. So, just how do you think these evil geniuses are going to pull all this off?”

“By way of genetically modified foods, TV programming and they spray us!”

“They spray us?!”

“Yes. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the haze in the sky. That’s residue from the regular spraying.”

“What are they spraying us with?”

“Hormones, mostly, a little radiation, some chemical cocktails and, it is believed, vitamins.”

“Vitamins?”

“Yeah, we have no idea what they are for.”

“You know all this sounds a bit nutty, right?”

“Yes, it does. But you are one of us now so try to follow along. It is why I am a fruitarian like Phil and I don’t have a TV. No GM foods for me. And I stay indoors at night when they do the spraying. I suggest you do the same.”

Oddly, I find that I am staying indoors at night.

One of my neighbours knits hats. They are very nice, really beautifully made and comfortable. If he likes you, he also offers to sew in an aluminum foil liner. “To keep the secret rays from the government microwave beams off your brain!” The good thing about his skill is that the foil doesn’t weigh anything and no one can see it inside the tasteful liner. It’s quite comfortable, actually.

We have a ‘phone book’ up here. One of the locals published it. Very few residents have phones but their alternative way of being contacted is listed so the concept is there at the very least. Most interestingly, all the names listed are first names. No last names.

“People got upset when I asked them their last name,” said the publisher. “So, I could only get them listed if I just used first names.” Of course we have Five Daves, four Steves, three Phils and Jens and, inexplicably, a Bubba (summer visitor, tho) so the mystery has been maintained somewhat. One neighbour I know as Gary is listed as Frank – for security reasons.

One of our locals is judged a bona fide genius. Mind you, the jury is somewhat suspect. Anything needing fixing, explaining or understanding is referred to Earl and the answer will be forthcoming if free libations go with it. Earl, himself, is rarely seen, however, except at community potluck dinners. And, when he is present, he is mostly very quiet or unintelligible. He, too, is convinced that the plots are all afoot and the end of days is nigh.

“Uh, no thanks on the turkey”, he said. “The government killed off all the real turkeys back in the 50’s and these are all clones of a mutant, genetically modified one that attacks your sperm count and adds to your female hormone levels. As soon as the government has enough technology for conducting wars without soldiers, they are going to eliminate men from the equation. They want us all to be women. Haven’t you noticed that almost all government workers are women? It didn’t start out that way, you know.”

Hard to argue with that even if you wanted to. But I passed on the turkey as well.

Tom is beyond eccentric. He is plainly off his nut. Having said that, he is amongst the most pleasant of companions and is genuinely welcomed wherever and whenever he shows up – for a while anyway. I like him, too. Kinda fun in a ‘where-is-this-heading’ kind of way. One day he showed up and did so without a boat. “Hey, Tom, good to see you. How did you get here without a boat?”

“Well”, he said with a huge grin, “that depends. Where am I?”

“You are here! At Dave and Sal’s. How could you get here without a boat?”

“Good question. My boat sank last week. I launched it at the boat ramp but forgot to put the plug in and it just kept going down. It sank with all my stuff in it. I was so discouraged, I left it there and went home.”

“I am sorry to hear that, but how did you get home? You need a boat to get home and you need a boat to get here. Work with me on this, Tom. Think hard. Got boat?”

“I must have!” he said laughing, “I think it’s down at the dock. I must have walked over. Ha, ha! How could I get here without a boat?” he said, looking at me as if I were mad. We had some tea and a nice visit before he went back over the hill to the dock.

I could go on. We have the seasonally naked guy (all seasons, it seems). The perpetually stoned, the new-age spiritualists, the really-skinny ones who fast all the time and the women who raise goats and slaughter them for some income but will only sell to a select few. One of them – at a community potluck dinner – got up to speak and denigrated all the males and followed that up instructing single males they had to eat last! Only men with their wives standing near dared go up at all.

It may seem odd to have this much oddness but it isn’t. It’s harmless and colourful, eccentric but entertaining and the really good thing is that you have no doubts about everyone’s true character. This is who we are and I couldn’t make this stuff up. Price of admission, free – as in free your self up, let it all hang out and pass on the turkey.