Tuesday, August 31, 2010

salmon run

The last time I fished was thirty five years ago. Remarkably, it was here in these waters. I bought my adult fishing license a few weeks ago along with a rod and reel. We deliberated for a long while about whether I should go for a salmon stamp and longer rod. We decided not to this year. We wanted to play it quiet and spend the season learning how to fish. My first try I cast the entire reel into the river and waded waist deep to retrieve it. I may have snubbed my nose at the government stocked trout prior my fishing debut but catching one of these will thrill and delight me to no end.

But salmon fishing is the real superstar sport in this area. Historically they provided food for the entire winter for the Secwepemc, the Stl'atl'imc , the french trappers, the british colonists and the americans who inundated the area during the gold rush. Surviving the winter was superstar living. Perhaps this is in part why salmon fishing has become superstar fishing.

Thirty million salmon are expected to run these next two months. They appear in streams unto themselves. Salmon red threads fighting the raging upstream between the round rocks of the shallow river beds. When we scuttle down the embankment we have front row seats.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Sunday, August 8, 2010

modular moon unit #3

265 feet from the first set of rails to the the doorstep of our trailer. My feet that is. Size 9 women's, 7 men's, 40 European. I walk past four other trailers to get here. There are three more on the other side. We all have dogs except the first unit- she has cats. We miss our cats and will get a new one soon.

We have said hello to everyone except the cat woman. There are two brothers living here in separate units. The brother who has lived here the longest lives in number 8. It's a choice lot adjacent to the tracks. He has only one neighbor on his north side. His southern exposure is wide open. He gets a spectacular view of the trains, the gorge that hides the raging Thompson River, the town and the caramel brittle rolling mountains. He's quiet though we see him out and about, putzing, fixing something or bbqing. He calls his brother Brother.

Brother lives in trailer number 6. an extrovert with vigor to kill. When I told him that I was interested in getting my hunting license he rushed us inside to show us two deer heads and an entire bear skin hung on the paneling in the front room. He's an avid hunter and can't wait to get out there the minute season is in. In the meanwhile, he likes to smoke big fat doobies. Most of them smoke here. They all call it dooby. Is this a BC thing or just a trailer thing?

The blond woman living between the brothers is pretty quiet too. She seems happy. We've said a quick hello to her while she was out walking the dog but we have made several observations. The front of her trailer is decorated with antlers and skulls. She has a mate. We have seen her smoking doobies at the neighbor's behind us who live in a regular house. The man of that house ducked in quickly one dusky afternoon when he saw us up the ladder against our roof panning the panoramic beauty that we live in.

Maybe people don't do that kind of thing here. It's true though- news is getting around: with population hovering just over a thousand, there's a new couple in town. They got California plates but one of them is from Montreal. How funny too then to find ourselves neighboring with trailer number 2- a Quebec ex-pat who has retained his accent though he hasn't been to the homeland in more than twenty years. He was very welcoming, offered us a mattress (all our furniture is in Montreal waiting to be shipped), some bowls, glasses, a fan and a rug washer. We hung out with him for an evening with his little bisson frisse and smoked a token dooby from his pipe. He openly declared himself depressed and last night when we felt Celine Dion's voice vibrating on our trailer floor we thought of making an intervention. But we didn't. Instead, we washed little bisson.

On our other side lives a trucker. Though he has been welcoming, we have seen very little of him. We did see him in town and we waved from our vehicle windows. Everyone drives pick ups here. Our little mustang won't make the winter roads that's for sure.

The trains are intense. CNR and CP both run past our court along the river, CP runs on the other side of the river and it's like a rolling lullaby. CN is on our side. 265 feet from our trailer door. It roars and thunders night and day. Wakes us up with it's whistle and blow. It's crazy. I have never lived in such an exotic setting.

We live in a trailer park down by the river.


Monday, August 2, 2010

cherryville, b.c.

If I had my choices, I would rather not carry the knowledge of my impending demise however laid before me it may be. It is a gratuitous form of torment don't you think. However composed in theory, the weight of inevitability oozes into your pores like a humid morass of coagulated gumbo. Or drying cactus paste closing up your nostrils in successive rays of sun beating on a sheet of glass.

I'd much rather have it happen to me without any fanfare or presentation. Nothing to faun about, worry or gaggle or discuss or misunderstand or regret. No sorting out no pining no whining no tickling or jiggling. No u-turn.

Because I find once I am in the move, in the action, whatever gets done gets done. Everything takes care of itself. And if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters in the end. In the end, nothing is the end of the world. We traverse from life to death by mystery.

In the end, there will be flies. The flies will take care of any uncertainty.