We live remote.  You know that.  No stores.  No roads.  No power.  What you may not know is that we do have a doctor.  Kinda.  Doc M (or her nurse practitioner partner) comes out to visit us every two weeks. She treks out the logging road in her 4×4 and I pick her up at the local dock and drive her over to the other side.  She then hikes up the hill to the local school and community centre and sets up her clinic in one of the lesser used rooms.  It is cold.  It is spartan.  It has only a trouble light on an extension cord and a woodstove that first needs starting to keep patients and doctor warm.

She knows in advance most of whom she will be seeing and so can bring with her the necessary bits and pieces she thinks she will require.  There is a cabinet in the room that is stocked with bandages, basic common solutions and other paraphernalia that she goes through on a regular basis.  She carries her records with her in her laptop computer.  They are the best doctor/practioners I have ever had.

“Why?”  Well, clearly they are visiting us more to adhere to the Hippocratic oath rather than the mantra of greed-is-good.  Her entire day may be consumed by seeing only a half a dozen patients.  There is no cramming, no staggering of people in small rooms.  Time is taken. She talks.  She cares.  She seems genuinely interested in her patients and she makes small extra efforts to do things properly.  Plus they each have a great personality. You just like them.

When I ran the downtown clinic, our doctors had to pound through the patients streaming in. They gave them more attention as a rule than I ever got from my own doctors but they still wasted no time, trucked no nonsense and adhered to Henry Ford’s assembly line philosophy.  If we had more rooms, they would have stacked them up just like our typical GPs do.

My previous doctors were horrible.  They put Henry to shame.  After awhile, I gave up on them ‘doing the right thing’ and simply found one acquiescent enough to do what I wanted them to do.

I have enough good sense NOT to try to get a particular prescription (feels unethical) but I did my own research into whatever symptom I was experiencing and suggested possible diagnoses so as to address matters more my way than theirs.  And that worked well but, of course, the doctors weren’t stupid and my preliminary research, way of presenting and relatively lucid explanation saved them time, too.  I was usually in and out after less than five minutes.  They made money.   It would take an hour of waiting for five minutes of role-playing but they were happy.

I wasn’t.  I would have preferred someone to care.  I would have preferred someone to get to know me, investigate, think, take time, show a personality, take their face away from their computer.  I would have preferred to have a relationship of sorts.  I would have preferred someone exactly like Doc M or NP P.

And they laugh at my jokes.  It simply does NOT get better than that for me.  Why?  Well, first off it means she is listening.  Secondly, I enjoy it.

Who would have thunk that the best medical care (and I mean real CARE) has come to me when living on an unserviced remote island.  Key word: they come to me!  Of course, I travel for blood work and maybe X-rays or machine-based testing should it be required but that can usually be arranged to suit the monthly town-shop blitz.  I am OK with that.

But, man, oh man, having a doctor/nurse who makes house calls in the wilderness is pretty special.

This opening is about the fabled chickens of yore and the story is not clear to me!  Did the acorn fall on Chicken Little and he told Henny Penny that the sky was falling?  Or was it the other way around?  Some have it that Chicken Little and Henny Penny and even an alter-ego called Chicken Licken are all the same bird.  It really is hard to figure out who misinterpreted gravity and acorns as the apocalypse and who just panicked when told of such a threat.  It’s much the same way amongst the Republicans, don’t you think?

Stupid liars or lying stupids?  Hard to tell.

Clearly Trump and Cruz are the main stupid chickens currently clucking down south.  One and the same almost.  One is bigger and even stupider but, at this point in reason, logic and just plain truth-telling, it is just a race to the bottom for them both.  I will wager that Trump will own that place some day.  He likes owning things.

I mention this because slowly but surely, incrementally and inch by inch, the threat of Muslim fanatics killing us all by beheading seems to be gaining traction with people in the US of A. And I attribute that to the stupid liars or the lying stupids.  Aided and abetted by the infotainment media.  

The point of raising that whole absurdity is that it seemingly proves that lying works.  Bald-faced, totally fabricated, completely false lies and un-truths are proliferating in all arenas these days and making headway in the hearts and minds of some of the people.  And the audacity of the liars is unprecedented. How did this happen?

Tabloid journalism!  Fox News!  Not really, they just took it one step further. Lying was an entrenched working hypothesis before them.  Plausible deniability comes to mind.  Black Flag operations is another.

But how did such blatant AND commonplace lying in public by politicians and clowns alike gain such purchase? Is it because they are good liars?  Is it because the audience was finally discovering so many lies everywhere that outrageous ones somehow gained credibility with us?

Actual quote: “Well, you see, it seems that everyone is lying all the time but at least the Donald is speaking his mind, eh?  I mean, I like that.  Speaking out.  Telling it like it is.  Ya gotta admire the guy for not being politically correct, eh?”

“I agree that he is not politically correct.  But shouldn’t he at least be correct?  I mean, the dickhead is just plain wrong, politically and in all ways.  We can’t admire open stupidity just because he isn’t embarrassed by it!”

I am ranting, of course.  Who really cares about the latest celebrity-idiot. We had Paris Hilton, Rob Ford, the Kardashians, Caitlin Jenner and now Trump.  In a world where celebrity is the goal at any cost, the list will be endless.  And it is.

The problem is that lying and distorting reality is NOT just entertainment. Especially NOT in politics.  We can afford a Paris and a Caitlyn but we cannot afford a Trump.  GWB almost put the world in the toilet.  Idiots in power can do a lot of damage.

Which brings me finally to Christy Clark and Bill Bennet of our provincial government. They don’t tell the truth.  They are outrageous.  Bill Bennet’s statements on doing the required due diligence on site C, Peace River dam proposal were blatantly not true.  He knew it.  He bluffed and blustered and the media presented what they also knew was not true.  It was a lie made more damaging by the acceptance of it by the media.  They enabled him.  Mind you, he had a good practice run at that style of propagandizing with the Mount Polley mine disaster.  They did not challenge him on that, either. This guy is getting the hang of it.

And Clark flits from photo op to photo op without any commitment to what she is saying. That is an effective form of lying, too.  Last election was all about her commitment to family.  This latest photo op is all about her commitment to affordable housing.  Before all that it was jobs.  And, don’t forget, we were gonna be petro-rich with LNG.  The list of empty promises she spews would be humiliating for most people but it is not for pathological liars.  They don’t care.  And neither does she.

Lying has always been a mainstay amongst BC politicians.  Now it is mainstream.  There is something so wrong with that, it feels like the sky is falling.

Yo back at ya.  Been away.  I have been writing book 2.  Ignored the blog for a bit.  So far, it is not good writing but mostly just a-grinding it out kinda-thing.  Exercise.  Writing 101, the second semester. I’ve ground out 15000 words so far….don’t know about it, yet……

I must admit that this draft is a lot of what I wanted say the first time but, after reading it, I don’t think it is all that great. Venting a bit.  A smidge of ranting, I think.   Basically, philosophy.  Kinda dull.

Therein lies the problem: I just think I need to do this.  I need to purge the OTG genie from my soul, fulfill the basic OTG message and generally speaking, finish what I intended with the first book.  The next real book should be different.  I am not limited to OTG.  I can write romance.  I can write poetry.  I can write cheap B screenplays.  I can even write more OTG, I think.  But, I don’t think I finished the first attempt.  Feels a bit undone….

The part I am rambling on about now is partly in answer to the How-To criticism, partly because I am inclined to lecture and patronize and partly because I don’t find much of OTG funny at this point.  I love it, of course. But I am not martyring myself much these days and, it seems, if it bleeds it reads funny.  People like banana skins and errant pratfalls.  I am being careful, ergo: dull.

Anyway, I jumped back here today to invite anyone to read the first 15000 words.  I’ll send the draft if requested.  It is not a story.  It is not a book.  It is a dull headache.  Don’t ask for it unless you read it all and swear by your mother’s grave that you will write back at least 100 words of harsh but constructive feedback.  “Burn it!”  is NOT constructive.

Forgive me if your mom is still with us.

As for those of you sane enough to pass on this opportunity, you have my respect and admiration.  You are the healthy ones.

Sal worked the Post Office yesterday.  That was nice.  She plunged through the sea in the pouring deluge in her little shoe-box of a boat and did her thing for the community, got some mail for us and said hello to a few people while steaming somewhat dry in front of the stove for four hours.  Then, arriving like a large walking dishrag, she came home in the near-dark to make me dinner.

What a sweetie!  I might have starved.

I, for one, really appreciate the postmen’s creed of persevering through rain and hail and all that…………..

For those of you still dreaming of going off-grid some day, there is a new site, http://solarhomestead.com you might like.  One of the better ones, I think.  Jody seems to know solar, that is for sure.  I think.  I dunno….I am impressed anyway but I still think electricity is a form of magic so I am easily impressed on that score.

This past week’s weather was largely below zero.  It was cold.  We have been burning through the firewood (duh) and are now half way through the stored supply.  For the previous eleven years, we never got half way through that even by the end of the season. The fire is on 24/7 these days.  And I am OK with that.  That is what it is for, after all.  And I like the uneven radiant heat woodstoves produce versus the ‘false’ mini-climate that central heating provides.  I like the bedroom colder, the living room warmer and the sense of being able to move from one temperature to another. So, it is good.

If there is a downside to this cold-spell it is that we don’t go out much.  Of course, we go to town when we need to, get the wood in every three days or so when the indoor pile runs down and I go out to start the genset now and then but, generally speaking, I have reversed completely the ratio of indoor to outdoor time as compared to even the spring and fall.

“So, what the hell do you do all day, Dave?”

Good question.  Usually, I laugh at that when people ask.  We are usually so busy.  They are wondering what a retired guy does on a remote island without a Starbucks to frequent. But I have answers.  Usually.  Not this time.   It is a fair question and the only honest answer is ‘very little of anything’.

I should be grinding out book #2 but the muse hasn’t hit me.  Don’t know where to go with that yet. We had guests for lunch Tuesday and that was a full afternoon of interesting give and take. I was going to pick up the ‘she-does-house-calls’ doctor (she is the best doctor I have ever experienced) on Wednesday but a heavy snowfall put postponement on that. We putz about on the computer.  We read.  We occasionally cook together.  The day goes by pleasantly enough.  But, make no mistake – we are in some kind of hibernation.  We are definitely at a slow idle.

Well, I am.  Sal is quilting, cooking, making arrangements behind my back for social events and the like (and then pretending that she consulted me).  She goes to book club, the quilting bee and does the odd day at the post office.  As she frequently points out, ‘a woman’s work is never done’.  It is interesting to note that the moment I point out that something is ‘woman’s work’, she won’t do it so that is a mystery there still to be explained.

The really nice thing is that we never argue.  Never bicker.  I enjoy her company and she mine.  People marvel at that but we seem to save common friction for construction matters.  We conflict when building but rarely on anything else. Well, sometimes when cooking but cooking is nano-construction, in my opinion.  Sal likes bland.  I like spicy.  The twain shall never meet.

“Dave, this is not blog-worthy!”

I know.  And that is the point, really.  We are not up to much that IS blog worthy these days.  Our usual winters involve going somewhere warm.  But every few years we stay home and things grind to a peaceful, rhythmic routine that is not uncommon out here.  And that IS part of an off-the-grid blog report.

Just a dull part.

This past year is the first year I have felt old.  I’ve had plenty of aches and pains before and felt fatigue, of course, but feeling old is much more than just all that.  It’s attention grabbing. It gets in your head.  It’s a state of mind.  I am thinking about aging and all that it encompasses much more than ever before. And it is a bit daunting, I must admit.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am NOT old.  Not yet, anyway.  But I have one foot in the ring.  I know that, too.  I feel that.  I have entered the playoffs.  I didn’t think ‘old’ would actually register until I hit the BIG 7-0 but, at 68, I now have the feeling.  A smidge early, I guess, but I am there.

Getting this far was a wild card chance given my history but I made it and I am in.  I figure to get through the quarter finals (my 70’s) and maybe make the semi’s (my eighties).  With luck, I’ll emerge at the end of 2038 in good enough shape to hit the finals with most of my team (body) intact.  I’ll play for the championship cup (urn) in my 90’s.  But I will get there – like all good athletes – one day at a time, giving 110% and relying heavily on the date that brung me.

But, geez…………doesn’t 2038 sound like a long ways off?

So, what has age got to do with it, anyway?  Well, first off, we (I) am not as ‘driven’ as I was.  Not in any way.  Time can pass without me stressing about it much anymore.  I am good with sitting.  I am good with NOT getting things done.  I had no idea I could be so good at that and so quickly, too, but I obviously adjust well.  And I am now comfortably content with sloth.  So, sue me.

And that may actually happen.  I have promised a lot of people a bathroom for the guest cabin by next summer.  And I intend to keep that promise.  Honest.  I also have to finish the greenhouse before I break all the glass and I intend to do that, too.  Plus there are myriad other, minor things that have to be done not the least important of which is cobbling a working 250cc dirt bike from the two ‘parts’ bikes I picked up.  My agenda is full, my expectations are high and my goals are still within grasp.

But I’d be a liar if I didn’t sense their increasing rather than decreasing distance.  That greenhouse feels as far away as it did last spring.  The cabin bathroom is definitely further away.  I am actually a little closer to some of the lesser projects but, overall, I think I am feeling a bit stalled, I feel a bit of slippage, some sliding back….

I gotta get moving again.  Mind you, winter always does this. Spring puts something back. Keep a happy thought, eh?

But – again – what has all that to do with off the grid?  Well, it is weird.  It really is.  The older I get the more I want to do.  Or, rather, wish I could.  The more wonderful some things now seem.  I know that I am not going to do them but I would like to.  Maybe it is the freeing of the mind to dream when you know in your heart that becoming a rock star is finally not an option or becoming the prime minister is pretty much ruled out.

Alright!  COMPLETELY RULED OUT!

Maybe it is being eliminated from so many contests that makes you appreciate them.  I don’t know. But I do appreciate everything much more.  That is for sure.  Getting old is really getting much more appreciative of what life you have left.

And getting off the grid is related.  Most people get off the grid by going to their cabin. They have to retire to do that.  Most retirement means stepping back.  Slowing down.  So most of the off the grid lifestyle change is usually about slowing down.  Typically.

It wasn’t for us.  We retired early and when we did, we cranked it up to build the cabin. We learned and grew and developed and built and we did so with gusto. We retired but we weren’t retiring, if you know what I mean.  Our going off the grid actually sped us up for a bit.  It was an acceleration and intensity set amidst the beauty of nature and at a pace we pretty much determined so it was not just a rustic version of a different rat race.  It was a lifestyle change.  Like it was intended.  But it was not slow.  Not in the beginning.  Not the first three or five years.  But it has been slowing down since I turned 60 or 61…or even 62.

I am probably six years into the slowing.  And only now acknowledging it.   It is a different view from here, I can assure you. Einstein was right: time is relative to the speed of light. What he didn’t tell us was that, if you are sensitive, you can determine that at slower speeds as you get older.

Sal and I used to host a NON New Years eve party.  If you want to have fun, drink, goof around, make noise, kiss each other’s wives and stay til midnight, don’t come.  If you have nowhere else to go, are willing to relax and just chill, promise not to kiss anyone and are in your own home before midnight, you were welcome. Come late, leave early and you’d get invited every year.

But, after a few years with way,way too many people attending, that got too intense, too. We quit that nonsense til this year. So, we have now changed it up to hosting a NON party on the next day. Today. This is basically for those who had no party to go to on New Years Eve and are extra grateful for a second-chance pity party, still willing to go home early and have no expectations whatsoever. If you have expectations, don’t come.  In fact, we are not issuing invitations anymore.

Because tonight, we’ll have eight for dinner. If they stay for dessert, we’ll never do this again.

It must come as no surprise, but I am not a fan of parties.  Never have been. And I feel even more strongly about that as we all get older.  Chit chat has never appealed to me and chit chat with people hard of hearing is hard work.  Really hard work.  I am at that age when everyone I know is hard of hearing and, worse, their voices seem to be getting weaker.

And, is it just me or is background noise getting louder?

I have never understood parties, even when I was young.  I just didn’t get it.  Still don’t. Why gather for meaningless conversation which is interrupted all the time? I only attended now and then to dabble in the gene pool anyway and way too often remained bone-dry…if you’ll pardon the wording.  It was hit and miss at best and I batted poorly, hardly making contact. Mostly striking out.  In fact, I reasoned that I could do much better entering a female beauty contest.  I would lose, of course, probably disqualified early, but at least I would have more fun in the dressing room if I dressed up enough to get in.  Parties were not even that promising.

I always met women by accident, never on purpose, never planned, never by intentional gatherings.  I even met Sally at the PNE.  She was sitting on the steps of the BC building with her girlfriend and looking all of 13 years old.  I was 21 and sat near them just to get out of the sun.  My friend Ted was making a fool of himself  doing what I had suggested would work to pick up chicks (but didn’t) and so I mentioned the silliness that was unfolding in front of us to the young girls nearby.  It was just a quick remark.  I really thought she was just a kid.  I wasn’t even chatting.  It was a total fluke of serendipity that I was chatting up my wife-to-be.

That was close to 47 years ago.

And today feels like day one.  I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

Just an idea….gonna ‘float it’….see what you think…..

Most people running for office are motivated to ‘do good’.  Even the idiot Cons thought they were right and had the answers to what ailed us (despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary).  Harper thought he was GOOD for the country.

Some pursue politics for reasons of ego and a hunger for power but they are rare.  Harper, Mulcair, Trudeau’s back room.  Christy Clark’s back room.  Those people thirst for power so as to push their personal agenda.  The average politician is no good at much of anything else (maybe teaching drama) but likes meeting people, shaking hands and kissing babies.   And they are more than willing to go along to get along.  They believe in the system.  They may be weak-minded and spineless joiners, followers and sycophants but, generally speaking, they are benign and vanilla-nice. Like lap dogs.

There are not a lot of truth-telling, courageous contrarians in politics, that is for sure.

And the reason we have parties and opposition and dirty politics is that these ‘personalities’ feel they can’t ‘do good’ unless they first have the power and that means (in this system) selling out, dirty tricks and telling lies.  And they even need to ‘join’ up’ to do that.  With that sacrifice, they then lose what little personal integrity they might have had. They rationalize that as required for the ‘team’ approach of the party system.  They and we seem to think they have to first do a lot of bending over, suckholing, brown-nosing and being blind to the evil in the background to be able to be in the position to do any good.

What a soul-killing exercise that must be.

I keep thinking about that.  There must be a better way.  I think proportional representation is a much better way but, once you get to thinkin’, you think up other stuff, too.

So….here we go: Imagine that all the candidates really want to do good, represent their community and are not motivated by the money, perks, bonuses and other selfish aspects of the job.  One, say, is the Green candidate, one Liberal candidate and Joe over there is the NDP. All others are welcome to join the local constituency pact, too.  The local pact is an agreement based on the fact that being adversaries is counter productive.  Being in opposition is the opposite of cooperation and their allegiance to the community is more important than subservience to the party that rarely serves anyone all that well.

The local pact plan can work better.

Of course, they run against each other but the two or three top vote getters (minimum votes required to form the pact…..say 25%) commit to cooperating.  And then, when the election is done, one of them is the official MLA but they (those with 25% or better) then split the salary and the perks.  They split the expenses and the per diems. And they work together.

Opinions and votes are decided jointly (deciding vote going to the highest vote-getter). But that means two people representing the community.  Or three. That means two or three bodies making it to meetings.  That means two or three minds being better than one and all the pact members being together are made more able to resist party pressures.

If three vote getters get more than 25% of the vote each then there are three bodies doing the job.  If only two get 25% or more then the pact is made up of two.

Why not?  If you are really running to help your community, then that should work for you in spades.  The average back bencher MLA gets over $105K a year in salary and somewhere around another $50k in expense allowances and such.  For hardly any excuse at all, they give additional pay.  Plus office staff and crap.  And there are plenty of perks.  Most MLAs I have met couldn’t get work at $50k in the real world so they can share what is likely close to $200k and still be way ahead.  Plus they get more done, satisfy more of the voters and have greater independence to vote their conscience.

It also ends the adversarial nature of politics and makes it more cooperative and more democratic.  

This plan is basically proportional representation done at the local level.  You want a candidate that is first past the post, then don’t vote for those who form the local pact.  You want as much bang for your buck as a taxpayer, then vote the local pact.  Easy.

I’ll call this idea the Pact Party.  It is not an official group but a movement, an idea, an exercise in peaceful revolution that should offend no one.

Such an idea is pretty simple, pretty basic and pretty unselfish.  Therefore it will take a lot of explaining and most people just won’t get it.  “Unselfish?  Like, duh, who would do that!?” 

I think a lot would.  I think most politicians start out wanting to do good.  And, I think if they did this good thing, they would revolutionize politics overnight.

What do you think?

Got up early to catch the first breakfast shift at the heritage house B&B we were staying at for day or so while down in Victoria.  Shared a table with a couple from North Carolina, Mary and Chester.  “We have learned that you folks don’t stop for rain, that’s for sure!  People just keep goin’ about their business as usual.”

“What does your average Bubba do when it rains in the Carolina’s?”

“Oh, we-all stay in.  No sense gettin’ wet.  We still go to work and all, but most other things wait til it’s over.  No sense walkin’ around in it or anything.”

They were very pleasant.  Invited us to look ’em up when we get down that way. Black-eyed peas, greens, ribs and cornbread promised. Some of our best adventures have been started on less.

Then up to Costco and the shopping-from-hell exercise that we do twice a year or so.  Car loaded.  And missing.  I am being plagued by the mass-air-flow sensor again.  The major error was in writing a blog about having fixed it.  What a fool!  The only solution now is in selling the car. I exposed hubris to the car-gods in that blog.  They don’t like that.  Golf gods are like that, too.  So are all feminine gods but I tempt fate now perhaps too foolishly by even saying that.  Apologies to all things feminine.

No, really!

Stopped at Spikes auto wreckers on the Malahat for a used sensor.  Spike is like most auto-wreckers; big, mean, dirty, all-business, all-rip-off, all-the-time.  Still, much cheaper than the original manufacturer, he has a legitimate scavenger’s place in the giant scheme of things.  While he turned his back to get my receipt I noticed his window was decorated with Christmas cards. “Say, Spike, do all you wrecker guys send Christmas cards to each other like the ones I see on the window?”  (Happy Holidays from Prince George Auto Wreckers!)

“Sure do.  Every year.  At Christmas.”  And then he added a big smile like he was one of Santa’s little helpers.

The cards.  The observation of Christmas coming every year and Spike’s big smile just appealed to me.  I left laughing.  Spike returned to being, well, Spike.  It was not one of those ‘you had to be there‘ moments because no one has to be there.  But, if you had, you would have laughed.

Sal didn’t get it either.

We drove like hell.  Not because we drove quickly but because the engine sputtered and died for nano-seconds the whole way.  I needed to get close to home to put in the part. But we made the city in time for the last load of perishables and then caught the ferry to the neighbouring island where our boat lay waiting patiently after being left there for us by our (awesome) neighbours.  It was getting dark.  A lot of heavy lifting later, we were bumbling along in the fading light to our our shore for the last and hardest leg of the journey.  Hauling everything up the rocks and ramp.  An hour or so later, we were in the house, with the fire starting to take the chill off.  We had been gone only five days but it felt terminal.  It was a voyage worthy of Sinbad.  Only without much of the sin.

It’s just a phase.  I am getting less inclined to travel these days.

Could be all the terrorists, or the people intending to catch them, but I think it is more that I prefer my own bed.  In fact, I prefer my own everything!  Even MY own cup of tea is better than everyone else’s tea. You know the empire is dead and gone when you can’t get a decent cup of tea anywhere!  Yeah….you can quote me!

Bloody ‘ell!

Gawd, it is good to be home.  GAWD, it is GOOD to be HOME!  GAWD, IT IS GOOD TO BE HOME!!!

She’s a neighbour, if you count being within twenty miles by boat neighbourly.  But we are also friends and we know her.  Quite the woman.  Slim, slightly taller than average.  Strong like bull.  Great attitude.  F is in her late 50’s but she lives the life of a twenty five year old. Hiking in Nepal.  Working crew on a large boat during the summer.  OTG’er.  Keeping a large family close, together and functioning extremely well.  There is not much F can’t do and there is a helluva lot she has done.  The whole family is a real life, modern day Swiss Family Robinson only tougher, more capable and the daughters are prettier.

The other day, she left her house for a short walk through the forest to the narrows near her island to take some photographs of the raging tide flow and rips occurring due to the extremely high tides this time of year. She had a hiking stick, like ski-pole, that she probably used to steady the camera on as much as assist her in hiking.  A good-sized dog, belonging to one of her grown children accompanied her.  When she got to the expected site, she took some pictures and sat for a minute on a rocky ledge.

The dog went nuts.  But dogs do that kind of thing and F ignored it for a second and then, turning to look for the reason found herself face to face with a large male cougar. She was quite amazed by the size of the big cat’s head.  That it was snarling and moving toward her was also somewhat attention-getting and so she got up, pointed her hiking stick and jabbed.  The cat advanced a few steps.  The dog continued it’s canine hysterics – not that the other two bothered to notice – and the cat snarled and hissed and continued forward.

F tried to puff herself up to look larger in her brightly coloured Gore-tex outfit.  No sense in ignoring fashion when confronting cougars, eh? But Gore-tex doesn’t fluff up all that well and F probably does not weigh 120 pounds soaking wet.  She impresses me all to hell but not because she is intimidating. I’m impressed because she is so capable in so many ways.

And, I am right.  It turns out she has a bit of lion tamer in her, as well.  As the big cat slowly advanced, so did F.  They were coming together.  She poked and jabbed, yelled loudly and sounded as aggressive as she could. She puffed up and gave no ground.  The cat snarled but stopped.  And F snarled back.

The big cougar saw something in the unfolding scene that suggested discretion might be the better part of valour and slowly backed down.  That decision was made a little easier by F slowly advancing and not giving an inch.  And the Great Pyrenees-border collie was starting to break the big cat’s concentration.  Time to leave.

The cat turned and ran with the dog nipping and yelping at his heels.  Both disappeared into the bush.  F walked home.  I am guessing rather quickly but knowing F, she may have stopped for a photograph if something beautiful caught her eye.

Half-way home the dog appeared at her side none the worse for wear.

So, just a walk in the park for F.  A brief encounter with danger for the cougar.  Lesson learned; don’t mess with a woman, her dog and her stick.