Marvelous May in the garden. With serpents and considering the lilies.

May really is the month of transition here in the mountains. This year, my third, that crucial number of adaption, completions, we had a bit of a wild swing. There were a few days when temperatures soared into the low nineties, burning the gentle spring things like my Queen of the Night black tulips and hastening the lilacs to crispy edgings. There were some mornings when I woke to a frozen birdbath yet again.

But on the whole the season moved towards warmth and the mad gallop which is short-season gardening. Of course the term is relative. My whole life, until 10 years ago, was oh! maybe 364 days of growing season. There was always something in the ground making roots and shoots, blooms and fruits.

Then came migration and the rude awakening to how some of the rest of the world lives. October 2001, I made landfall in a temperate rainforest. After the initial shock, I got my Darwin on and adapted reasonably, in a few seasons, to low light conditions under perpetually cloudy, perpetually drippy skies.

2010 and the next migration: inland to the four seasons of the mountains where a long cold frozen winter is offset by a fast-forward hurtle through the other three seasons. The growing season in the Gulch not as short as some even further north or further inland, but I do find myself paying closer attention to the numbers on the back of seed packets which list the days until harvest,  than I might have in my youth on another continent. I am learning to measure from last to first frost and calculate windows of time within that. I even find myself glancing twice at greenhouses. Real ones, not those storybook ones built for effect rather than tools for extension of the gardening craft.

So back to the garden. Snow peas are flourishing even though they are next to bad companions, spring onions. That just happened because the only things I inherited in this garden were what I think is garlic and spring onions. Some coriander (dhania) self seedlings volunteered themselves later in the month, almost crushed underfoot.

Arugula (rocket) germinated almost the minute the seed had left my hand. This eagerness pleased me. Ten years ago I brought seed from the Eldorado garden left behind. Each year, wherever I have been, I have planted arugula, harvested some seed. Continuity and the bridges I build across my life. Connecting then to now, here. The first two leaves from tiny seeds work that magic weaving piece for me. I will eat them too some weeks hence: pungent and spicy, on sandwiches, in salads.

Life is flavoured sometimes with nostalgia and secret traditions.

Two Blueberry bushes have gone in and in the process had me thinking about gardening, attachement, materialism, the strange notion of private ownership of the earth and the delusion of immortality so prevalent in this culture. I mentioned my gardening at a meal recently. "Wait. You rent and you are putting in blueberries, a cherry tree, gooseberries and all these plants?"

Yes. I am renting the roof over my head and the patch of earth surrounding. And yes, I am planting perennials.

I do not create a garden for myself but plant a mixture of food and flowers for the future. I am here now. This is the piece of earth I work at this time. I will not always be here. I do not know how many seasons but that is not going to stop me from catching a ride on the wild gallop of this season.

Like Mickey in the Night Kitchen. I am in the earth and the earth is in me.

And for the record: What is with certain city administration decisions to rip out shrubs and flowers to plant lawn because it will be cheaper to maintain? Yeah right: water and mow with that non-renewable energy guzzler exhaust fume spewing machine of yours.

Volunteers who did not want salaries or health insurance had been organized to take on the gardens yet we were refused. Pave paradise and put up a parking lot, why don't you? Even better make it a used car sales lot.

Once you could have had sustainable food and blooming beauty gardens to feed body and soul in the centre of town. Once there was a bunch of visionary earth warriors.

And once there was also a bunch of materialistic, shortsighted yellow-bellies stole the future from their own children, laid waste an urban landscape.

Always a serpent in the garden.

I had a dream there was a little town grew their own food in public spaces, around their library, for example.

Deadhorse Gulch. Nothing to nothing. Consider the lilies.

Baptizing Little Yoni: defecting to the single bladed side

After voyaging with the Beaver Skinner I realized how right it felt to paddle a canoe rather than a kayak on these flat, dreamy, inland waters.

"Seriously seeking canoe. Have paddle. Will travel." I put a request out to the universe via my Facebook status update.

The blue bathtub toy is fine for a summer snooze but the water is too cold early and late in the season to sit in a puddle. Not to mention the heebie jeebies I sometimes get when paddling over murk and realizing that I am sitting in it. The lovely, sleek and elegant Merlin is a salt water vessel and too fast, too long, too speedy and just plain out of element in fresh water. The Merlin is wrong for prayer paddling on rivers and little lake backwaters which I have access to here in the Inland Empire.

I started combing the Craigslist ads for canoes. It was not all fun and there was a major disappointment. I managed to lose a steal of a deal on a Mohawk Solo by a hair, because I had a work meeting so could not make the journey to inspect in time. Well, also because the seller was not responding to email communication.

Turns out that the universe knows best, and the Big Smoke branch of that Seattle based outdoor equipment store was having a scratch and dent sale.

Enter the Little Yoni.

She is a slightly scuffed Old Town Park canoe. A little seed pod shaped, big bellied, 12 footer. At 33 lbs,  she is so light I can lift her with one hand, yet, she can carry up to 600 lbs.  She had never seen water when she came into my life. The scratches and dents were from hanging for years on the wall at the top of the stairs, behind the fake climbing wall in the store. There were innumerable stickers on her lovely curves, and a lot of dust. The salesman did do some cleaning but there is still goo which needs to come off.

I drive straight from the Big Smoke to Starvation Lake to baptize Little Yoni  in a swallow filled, rain-stormy, magically lit, late afternoon. This little seed pod is decorative piece no more. She was built to travel on water and voyage she will. She's off the wall and on the water!

A strong wind churned the water in parts, giving me chance to experience Little Yoni's stability, tracking and magnificent maneuverability. After so long of double bladed paddling, I still need to get my rhythm going with the single blade but kneeling, resting against the seat feels good in this Little Yoni. I slipped pretty quickly into a comfortable position. I could paddle miles this way, kneeling on a pad of the old salt's old life vest. Continuity.

Ruddy ducks squeaked and bobbed, black birds trilled and the swallows ah! the swallows surrounded. It is so fitting since the swallow of migration is my emblem, my first tattoo. My new chariot of migration, vessel for nomadic dreams, Little Yoni the vision voyager, is welcomed by swallows. At Starvation Lake, which always feeds.

The cosmic bulletin board is alive and well. The universe responds, even to Facebook status posts. Yes I did have to travel to the Big Smoke. And yes, I do have two single bladed paddles, both gifted to me over time.

The Beaver on the Bead: Voyages of the Beaver Skinner part 3

After a slightly lazy Sunday morning start, we head over Flowery Trail with Beaver Skinner. We have another whole day with the canoe. The sun is shining. Conditions too good to not take advantage of.

Bead Lake in the Colville National Forest just north east of Newport is my showpiece lake: I dream about taking out of town visitors here. At last! I have a (semi-captive) out-of-towner. My first encounter with this place of enchantment is written up here

 There is always a gasp! pinch-yourself-it-is-real beauty and magic at Bead Lake. It has the most magnificent aquamarine colour - caused by travertine in the water - and exquisite clarity. This early in the season I am hoping there will be no motorized traffic. Smelly, throbbing motorboats can ruin a prayer paddle.

There are privately owned houses in one section of shore near the boat launch, but it is quite easy to paddle away from those houses and forget about them. Before Memorial Day many of the houses are closed for the season anyway.

Though it is that hallmark holiday of Mother's Day, aka Lazy Sunday in certain circles (and coincidentally we had begun the day in a very lazy fashion), and so potentially busy, we are lucky.

 A trio of once or twice a year kayakers are just coming in as we launch. During the time that we are on the water there is only a one other motor boat. They are far away and spend most of their time being inspected at the boat launch so do not interfere with our tranquility.

The water is as jewel coloured and clear as I remember. Reflections shimmer and ripple. Sunlight dances diamonds.

Turtles grace us with their presence.

Again we take a slow perimeter paddle. A canoe is a really comfortable way to do this.

I am not so spooked by the drowned things in the depths, unlike last year when the blue bathtub toy and I saw all the way to drowned elk bones way below. Amazing what a difference a companion can make.

Sadly we had to return Beaver Skinner to Pete and Larry that Sunday evening. They are not there when we finally find our way through the woods to the house at the end of the rutted road. I leave a fresh baked loaf of banana bread hanging in a bag on the front door in appreciation for the loan. I do hope the raccoons did not get it.

Devotee though I am of the Church of the Double Bladed Paddle, this weekend with Beaver Skinner might just have made me a convert to the single bladed paddle persuasion. Canoes just feel so right on these inland fresh waters.

Seriously seeking canoe, have paddle, will travel.

Crossing the Columbia: Inchelium

Coming back from our paddle on Twin Lakes we cross the Columbia (Lake Roosevelt) at Inchelium on the little Columbian Princess ferryboat.

The Columbian Princess is Washington State Ferry's smallest ferryboat. The Gifford-Inchelium ferry is operated by the Federated Colville Indian tribes. There is no cost to ride this boat and no schedule beyond the first (6:30 am) and last boat (around 20:30h in winter, 21.45h in summer). The ferryboat sails when full, or when the captain deems there are enough vehicles on board. The crossing takes around 6 minutes and there are restrooms at either dockside.

Two years ago, almost to the day, in May 2010, I wrote up a pretty substantial piece on this ferry here. There are some links in that blog post to more background information.

The damming of the waters of the Columbia River drowned the original settlement of Inchelium. On this day draw down has the water pretty low so that we see expanses of exposed, lifeless sand. I am always a bit sad and haunted around Lake Roosevelt, even though I love riding the Columbian Princess. So much was lost when the area was flooded and the artificial manipulations of the level of waterlevels, especially noticeable in spring,  leave me feeling somewhat uncompassed.

Twin Lakes with a canoe: Voyages of the Beaver Skinner part 2

Finally, after our date with destiny at St Paul's Mission (detailed in part 1 here) we launch Beaver Skinner at the campsite on Twin Lakes on Colville Indian reservation. On this beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon, there are a few other families fishing and picnicking, but the site at the end with a great grassy put-in is free, as if saved just for us.

Two eagles circle the lake in greeting as we unload Beaver Skinner, eat our burritos at the lakeside picnic table. One of the unexpected tandem lessons of the day:  picnic tables with attached benches will topple if both people sit on the same side. Dang! Just when I thought I could share the puddle of sunlight with the old salt. Nearly had us both upended into the lake before we had even launched!

The lake is full from snow melt, the water dark blue and secretive in places. The sun's warmth offsets the chill water temperature. The surrounding mountains still bear snow. Though we have seen many miles together on the water, this is the first time the old salt and I will be paddling tandem, in the same vessel. I am not sure how it is going to work out. We are both pretty independent, solitary spirits, used to paddling our own 'yaks, journeying together yet paddling to our independent rhythms. I am also a pretty committed double bladed paddler.

I get to be princess and sit up front, admire the scenery and take pictures, while the old salt paddles, steers, manoeuvers and generally gets to exercise his alacrity in a canoe, they way he was born to.

I raise  up the black paddle, hail the water, the sky, the eagles and the spirit of being twin. I can think of no better place to initiate this blade than this piece of water with this man who has taught me so much about the nature of water and the art of wielding a paddle.

I try kneeling to paddle and find it feels powerful but my toes cramp, unused to the bend. I am still a splashy paddler with a single blade. Mostly, this journey, I lay the paddle across my lap, look and listen. The old salt is really all paddle power we need: the lake is calm. We explore, moving gently, quietly through the backwaters. Beaver Skinner is amazingly willing and compliant.

 We stick to the perimeter, paddling away from the people. We find beaver dens and turtles, flocks of geese, ducks, bullrushes, nests and a swampy feeling. We could almost be in the Everglades but there are no alligators.

There are so many turtles basking on logs, storing up warmth from the afternoon sun, that this should be called Turtle Lake. There are more beaver dens.

The fishing boats gather on one section. We turn back after a couple of hours of leisurly sightseeing,  rather than paddle into the fishing lines.

Twin Lakes. Beaver Skinner and the old salt, who sometimes needs some help. Some things are better done tandem. For example: if you don't wait for your paddle buddy to share the task of taking the boat out of the water, you might just end up Beaver Skinnered: aka spreadeagled under a blue canoe as a pretty lady walks by.

Everybody needs some help. Sometimes.

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