The road less cycled

Further information on Peter Donaldson can be found at www.peterdonaldson.net. This post is a replica of an assignment for my creative non-fiction course.

Some of my most memorable experiences involve a man by the name of Peter Donaldson. It was Donaldson who acted out the one man performance “SalmonPeople” – the play about the space that doesn’t exist between “Salmon” and “People.” Donaldson, too, who conducted an environmental leadership workshop at the X:aytem longhouse in Mission, where his presence transformed the atmosphere into one of thoughtful focus. Again, it was Donaldson who created the reverential atmosphere inside the dugout pithouse behind X:aytem by reading his epic chronicle of poetry “Salmon Circle.” A final time, it was Donaldson who performed “Eagle Eye,” again in the X:aytem dugout – a masterful narrative of the human species’ journey of discovery over its relationship with nature, seen through the eyes of an eagle. Of these four experiences, perhaps the one that stands out most to me was the reading of the “Salmon Circle” at the 2005 Fraser Valley Bald Eagle Festival.

Donaldson had just guided us through a series of thoughtful exercises with regard to sustainability – how to incorporate it into our lifestyles and how to effectively communicate it, and we had then then been treated to an absolutely sumptuous dinner prepared by a woman of First Nations heritage by the name of Denny Stobbart – whose husband Al I would later get the chance to count bald eagles with. The meal was entirely sustainable, prepared with ingredients sourced from local farms and organic where possible– no mean feat for late November. It was entirely composed of finger food on toothpicks, with no disposable plates, cutlery, or cups on hand. For Denny, the amount of work involved must have been immense. The impact it had, in driving home the importance of doing sustainability all the time, not just when cost effective or convenient, however, by far justified the work involved (easy for me to say, not being the cook.)

Following the meal and workshop, Donaldson posed the question of whether we would prefer to engage in a social for the rest of the evening – just to mingle and get to know the others in the room, or to troupe out to the dugout and hear some of Donaldson’s poetry. My friend Bob Thomas, the flamboyant red-haired gentleman and Manager of the Mission Chamber of Commerce who had chauffeured me from site to site for the 2004 Eagle Festival, broke a lengthy silence by saying in serious tones undercut with a hint of humour, “I’d choose to hear some poetry. I mean, I like poetry…” Donaldson replied with mock surprise, “That has to be a first. The manager of a Chamber of Commerce likes poetry…” The exchange was met with a collective chuckle, and the choice was made. Poetry it would be.

As the group finished eating, we slowly trickled out to the pithouse, arriving one at a time, ducking as we entered as a result of a doorway that only reached shoulder height on most of us. We seated ourselves in a semicircle around the back, opposite the door. Big cedar logs supported the dugout inside, and a roof that slopes up to a point and an opening permitted a fire when desired. Tonight, there was no need, as the evening was mild and accommodating. The air inside the dugout seemed imbued with a sense of calm, of peace, and you could feel the cares lifting off of people’s shoulders as they settled themselves and waited.

Peter was the last to enter, lithely stooping very low to wend his tall frame and broad shoulders through the doorway. He began with some natural conversation, congratulating us and expressing wonder that this small group of perhaps a dozen people was almost solely responsible for organizing the Fraser Valley Bald Eagle Festival, which this year was to attract literally hundreds of people, and blow previous attendance numbers out of the water. Humbly, those in the dugout pointed out that there were others, too – they just weren’t represented here. Peter then brought the conversation round to the 2010 Olympics here in Vancouver, and the enormous responsibility and opportunity that existed to pull off a green, sustainable Olympics. Peter’s like that, having the uncanny ability to gently, effortlessly pull a discussion round to the most relevant topics, and picking out the important bits for emphasis.

Then, he stood, and began to read, but it didn’t feel as if he was reading, more as if the words flowed effortlessly from somewhere deep inside of himself. He became one with the words he had penned.

#1: Egg

I’m tiny.

Bright orange

Salmon egg.

I wait,

the long wet winter.

I wait

The wild winds wave

In the forest

Above the surface of my dream,

I wait.

I’m very busy.

I wait.

Underneath

The surface

Of my stream

Inside and in between

Round gray-green

Pebbles, I wait

I’m very busy.

I wait.

I’m very busy.

#4: Downstream

Freshet floods release! Freshet spring!

Freshet rise and let me ride

Downstream, down canyon, cascade and valley wide

As in my dream

Memorize these.

Odor of alderwood,

Fragrance of sandstone,

Scent of gleaming glacier,

Granite’s face a pebbled fate,

Slide of slate and old basalt,

Perfume of beaver dam, rank of iron,

Scant sketch of sulfur skunk cabbage soliloquies,

Bouquets of moss, fallen log,

Vocal fumes from a raccoon bog,

Confluence thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,

Rapid voices rejoice cascading

Gravity’s laziest choices,

Open wide, mayfly eyes

The valley meandering, we ride

Past railroad ties, timber buys,

Reservoir backwater, slack-water, black-water,

Warnings, warmer,

Time lost is time mistrusted

Anchored aroma creosote encrusted,

Concrete backdrop, logboom blunder, pulled asunder,

Blunder, blunder! Turbines thunder,

Bubbles rumble, spillgate tumbles upside downstream me

Mixed, nitrogen fixed, raceway, race

Away alder beach to picnic reach,

Farm to fields, fecund yields bovine pee,

Wink of dairy, fertilizer spree, whiff, sniff of industry,

Stinking zinc of galvanized culvert,

Sentient impasse, chemical morass

Swiftly move me, swiftly past

Marina pilings, rainbow spills,

Petrol, diesel, aching gills

Profane asphalt introductions,

Impervious sensory deconstructions,

Copper, mercury, crank case oil drop,

Overflow, storm drain, dog crap runoff,

Vociferous, olfactory, aquatic malaprop, O’ malodorous

Big blind river,

Remember me, please, all of these

Backwards.

Truly, the title of “Salmon Circle” was appropriate – at times it was difficult to tell where one poem ended and the next began. Peter paced from one side of the dugout to the other, momentarily hidden behind the wide cedar beams before reappearing on the other side, his deep, fluid and resonant voice filling the space surrounding all of us. Each of the listeners was drawn into the story, imagining and picturing the salmon journey which Peter brought to life. As I glanced around me, I saw people had closed their eyes to better take in the experience, wanting to concentrate fully on the words – a sense of deep reverence and shared respect that could almost be termed spiritual emerged. Everyone in the room was there for one primary reason: because they cared. In addition to working in fields related to the stewardship of the natural world, they cared passionately about the wellbeing of our natural resources, and salmon, as fundamental keystones of our ecosystem, are suitable focal points for this passion.

As he finished each poem, Peter gave someone the sheet he had just read from. Both Mark – my benevolent chauffeur for this event and Fisheries and Oceans employee – and myself reported being gifted with the poem which we had most enjoyed – another example of the impression Peter creates of having some sort of sixth sense that enables him to say and do the right thing at the right time. Peter, in reading these poems in such a powerful setting, in effect sent a message of positive reinforcement to the participants. He was able to say, “You know, you guys are on the right track. The deep sense of reverence for the natural world, and the heartfelt sense of responsibility to protect it, are extremely positive emotions, and by acting on them you’re being responsible citizens. Keep it up.” Many a community activist feels the strain of being overburdened, and goes through self-doubt phases where he or she wonders whether it is all worth it, and an event such as this one which provides the opportunity to interact with such a confident and well spoken figure as Peter Donaldson goes a long way towards setting the activist’s mind at rest – that yes, the struggle is important, and in the end, worth the effort involved.

Saturday was a crisis-caused blast.

Did a favour for the store manager in Mission by coming over from Abbotsford to close on Friday night. Blew out a tire somewhere in Mission, and noticed it when parked on a delivery just around the corner from the store, from where I limped back to the parking lot, though considering the integrity of my rim I should probably just have left the car where it was and had it towed. Caution is, after all, the better part of virtue. Or is it patience?

No matter. It was 1:30 a.m., and between the 3 of us in the store, we couldn’t come up with the right combination of spare tire, wrench and socket, and jack to put on a spare, so I left it in the parking lot overnight and spent the night at the manager’s place just up the road. Having only recently begun driving with regularity, and having been first and foremost a cyclist since high school, I do admit to still being extremely inept when it comes to anything car related, and I’d never even changed a tire, so figuring out how to do that for the first time at 2:30 a.m. wasn’t overly appealing.

I figured I could be up and gone by 9 a.m., as couches and I don’t agree too well. The times when I crash at people’s places are the times when I’m least worried about sleeping in – I never sleep well enough on such occasions for that to be a remote possibility. This time SH apparently cranked up the gas fireplace just before retiring to bed, causing me to wake-up at 6 a.m. wondering whether I’d developed a roaring fever or whether it was time to call upon my elementary school “stop, drop, and roll” arsenal. When you’re accustomed to coming home to a basement equipped only with an electric heater that takes 2 hours to bring the room up to temperature, well, roaring gas fireplaces used indiscriminately can be a bit of a shock.

Sure enough, 9 a.m. saw me staggering out the door for a brisk 20 min. walk down the Cedar Valley Connector where after a breakfast at City Blends and a half hour wait I caught the #31 bus back to Abbotsford. It’s soon to be an every 15 minute bus, as is the #1 which took me home. Since Stephen Lewis and Hugh Brody were speaking that night at the UCFV Abbotsford Campus, I made plans to leave the car in Mission until after the talk, resolving to take advantage of the very clement weather to cycle cross-town to the University. Until I realized my ticket was, well, you guessed it, on the passenger seat of my Prelude.

Now Mission’s not that far away, but I have an intense dislike of asking favors of people to the order of free rides to Mission and back, so out came the bicycle a little on the early side. After a visit to Vancity and Starbucks (they have great Happy Planet juices – a progressive, community and sustainability oriented company founded by Vancouver mayoral candidate and NDP MLA Gregor Robertson), I naturally missed the #31 Connector by 4 minutes and determined to keep right on pedalling.

When I arrived at Mission Domino’s, the next bus was leaving Abbotsford.

Grabbed my ticket, said hello to the Mission staff, and rode down to the Junction Mall bus stop, where the first #31, naturally, had no bike rack – one of the kinks that has to be ironed out of the transit system if it’s ever going to be considered reliable. Since I never can pass by a chance to read the paper over a mocha, I stopped in at Starbucks at The Junction (The Onion News Network reports that Starbucks is now opening new branches inside the washrooms of existing Starbucks and I believe it) again while waiting for the next bus – this would prove an ill-fated decision, as my inner gossip and roving eye teamed up and came to rest on an intriguing figure.

As I was to learn, he was Irish – though I could have guessed from the size and color of his nose. Occupying a table by himself, he looked just a little out of place. One of those people who look like they’ve just emerged from a log cabin in the Canadian wilds after a 20 or 30 year hiatus from civilization, and has just cleaned themselves up enough to look respectable. I asked myself whether I’d rather bury my face in the Province Newspaper or learn more about this guy, since I was, after all, sitting pretty much right next to him. So as a conversation starterI asked him some innocuous little question that I don’t even remember. Turns out he rents a little acreage out in the Dewdney area where he has some horses, and operates a little boat in the Fraser River for a local mill for $20 bucks an hour. As he spoke he rolled himself a – a what? I’m not that good on my taboo substance or activity slang – guess I’ll go with the cliche “doobie.” He told me of his kids who range from 5-18, and of his passion for artistry, commenting on how in the 70’s he could make $2-300 in a half hour doing work that today is all done by computers. I have a distinct appreciation and respect for those who earn their living purely through physical means – coupled with a respect for the land and for fellow human beings there’s nothing dishonorable about it. Quite the opposite, in fact.

While chatting, naturally, my bus pulled up. I was waiting for it, being only 20 seconds on bike away. Still missed the damn thing, as it pulled in and out way faster than I expected. Of course I chased it, gesticulating wildly at the bus driver, who, like all bus drivers, either didn’t seem me or pretended not to see me. A few strings of well chosen curses later, I was pedalling to Abbotsford again, arriving in good time for the Lewis/Brody event.

The car tire got changed too, that night – nothing to it, actually. Since then the leak was temporarily fixed – work I actually enjoyed doing. I’m a little mortified and stupefied at the realization that I seem to be developing a liking for car mechanics.  I suspect it won’t take more than a day or two of trying to fix the little stuff and a couple hundred dollars of big repairs to disabuse me of that.

In Beachcombing at Miramar Richard Bode writes of searching for shells with a blemish, because as he sees it, it’s the imperfection that makes perfection. I was blown away at work today to hear this exact idea touched on. One of my co-workers casually mentioned that he liked crooked teeth on a woman, whereupon someone promptly repeated the imperfection making perfection line. Just goes to show how a successful writer doesn’t necessarily have to re-invent the wheel, merely to write down in an interesting and concise way what many people realize anyway.

On a completely different note, here’s some food for thought:

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop, and everybody goes ahh…”
from On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Suffered through a staff meeting today. My manager’s been hinting lately that to date I’ve conducted myself much as my brother did when he started with this company, and that in a couple of years I could well be managing one of the stores. (had a typo earlier – “managing the stars” – perhaps a more suitable vocation). My tacit and tentative response to that? Fiddlesticks and balderdash – I’d sooner go milk cows or something than spend fifty hours in one of those stores. Besides, I can’t even slap a decent pizza yet, and with my hands so dry already I don’t fancy dusting them with cornflower every shift – and it is the manager’s responsibility to do a good deal of the slapping.  After the meeting, I toodled on over to the City Blends next door and browsed through the Alive magazine I picked up at Herbs & Health Foods in WestOaks yesterday, and then on an impulse went up the Cedar Valley Connector to see if I could access the creek which I know tumbles under it. I forget the name of the creek just now, but do recall that there were issues with streamside protection when the Connector was put in a few years back now. After cruising around for a bit, with the volume on my car stereo cranked up so I can’t hear my constant-velocity, or CV, shaft creaking ominously around every left turn, I do find a little cul-de-sac backing onto a greenbelt which I figure leads down to the creek, and it does, so before long I find myself perched as I so often have been over the past years, on the bank of a free-flowing little urban creek. Thoreau once asked himself what business he had in the woods if his thoughts were not of them, and I’d echo this, as my thoughts centered more around the time I’m taking off work to get my car fixed after March 10. Clutch a-slipping, CV shaft a-creaking, clutch pedal a-squeaking, unknown belt a-squealing, radio not a-radioing, light and time clock not displaying, and water a-wetting where it ain’t supposed to.

Descending the ravine, I noticed that Pacific Bleeding Heart forbs are emerging from the wintry, leaf-strewn ground, and recalled past years where one of my primary pre-occupations after school would be to canvas the surrounding woods to observe the progression of the season. My Gr. 11 and 12 years, when most of my peers were pre-occupied with who knows what – first jobs, first driver’s licenses, for some their first cars, first relationships, sexual experimentation, doing the party circuit, maybe trying out hallucinogens for the first time – I’d be content to simply head for the hills when the bell rang. I taught myself the Latin names of all the native plants, took the neighbour’s dog for long walks, dabbled in some amateur nature photography, brought along a journal to record my thoughts and observations, and generally basked in social obscurity, only making half-hearted attempts at best to associate with most of the people in my grad class. Good people, most of them, with their personal ambitions, hopes for the future – to embark on their careers, begin their own families, or simply travel and see the world. But they didn’t interest me, not beyond the occasional, hidden and stifled, infatuation with a pretty girl, at least not half so much as did the open woods and my garden. Today I was quite pleased to find I still recalled the Latin name for Pacific Bleeding Heart – Dicentra formosa – without having to look it up.

Subsequently I nearly skewered myself on a Devil’s Club – Oploplanax horridus if memory serves me correctly – a plant treasured by First Nations people for its many medicinal uses. I’ve heard that some people have horrible allergic reactions to Devil’s Club when pricked by it, and I’ve always half wanted to try it. So far however, I’ve always managed to avoid it, and never had the nerve to deliberately puncture myself too see the results. If you’ve seen the plant and it’s spikes, you’d know why.

Was it perhaps Windebank – the name of the creek? Looked like decent salmon habitat. Not long now until the hummingbirds return – usually around mid-March. Perhaps also, this year, I’ll find the time to be gathering wild stinging nettle as a potherb as I used to do (to strange looks from parkgoers, admittedly).

Strange looks from others are one of the rewards of life. Evidence that you’re on the right track.

Egads, I really am a nerd. A transportation nerd, that is. Opened the Abbotsford News today, and literally got chills down my spine reading that the City of Abbotsford is planning to add an exchange near Clearbrook and South Fraser in 2008, and perhaps relocate the current one? The latter part wasn’t too clear. Anyway, creating an exchange in West Abbotsford is something I and at least several other people that I overheard specifically advocated for at various transportation related open houses, so it appears that City staff are listening. They’ve also planned to provide 15 minute service along the main routes, the 1,2,3 Go Lines, accompanied with a fare hike. I can live with that, as this could well lay the groundwork for the implementation of a U-Pass system for UCFV students.

There will be an Open House on March 12 for the public to provide input and discuss these plans. I, for one, will make every effort to be there.

Of note, on my way to work today I stopped in at the Clearbrook library to pick-up a book on the history of the BC Electric Railway Company and the old Interurban, and who did I meet but my friend CK, a local cyclist and active community member. He’s with the Abbotsford Cycling Action Group, Central Valley naturalists, and coordinates weekly Tuesday night rides during the warmer months which I’ve been meaning to attend for ages, in addition to which he helped the StreamKeeper’s group I led in high school clear blackbery bushes from a streambank in preperation for re-planting with natives. We had an amusing little exchange – I mentioned I was delivering pizzas now, and he replied in his strong British accent, “On a bloody bike? You’ll be fit as can be in no time (paraphrase). And then, commenting on the fact that I’d finally begun driving myself around, “Well, yeah. You must be fighting off the women now. I was the same way.” I gave a knowing chuckle at the cheekiness of that comment, and ended the exchange there to leave for work. For perspective, I’d say CK’s in his 60’s and still going strong, too. I should know – I’ve cycled with him.

I walked out of the library with a big grin. The rewards of spending so much time with groups like the cycling action group, the naturalists, etc. – I meet a lot of people outside my age group who’ve got more interesting things to say than more than a few of my peers who seem to have perfected the art of meaningless conversation. With a generous handful of exceptions, of course.

Just using the weblog this afternoon to get the creative juices flowing. I’m here in the UCFV library with a a pair of headphones listening to CBC Radio 3, jumping over to my playlist when what they’re playing is crap, but mostly just sticking with what they’re feeding me and half paying attention to it. I’m really not in any condition to write or do much of anything, as my head’s mired in the after-effects of the cold/flu I’ve been wading through for a couple days now. It seems to be clearing up as my throat’s loosening, but on the other hand it’s really the first physical symptoms other than sore throat that I’ve felt, so maybe it’s going to stick around for a little while yet. It doesn’t help either that I keep hunting around in the cabinets for things like Vitamin C, bio-flavonoids and not finding them. I don’t really know what my dad’s financial situation is like, but usually the absence of these kinds of things is indicative of something, if only absentmindedness or a full schedule.

By intention, I’ve never ingested any kind of pharmaceuticals. My parents weren’t like those parents who run to the pharmacy for something that’ll kill the symptoms everytime their children have a sniffle. No, they preferred instead to stick to natural remedies – good food, vitamins, and herbal stuff, and for all that I find fault with, I’m grateful for that. One of the best we have is Oil of Oregano – a really potent extract which seems to work wonders as an overall immune system stimulant, as well as as a painkiller for toothaches. My immune system is perfectly capable of handling the odd intrusion, and doesn’t need to be propped up by antibiotics, thank-you very much. Sometimes I wonder how our economy would look if everyone used such an approach to healthcare – from one perspective it’s an economic killer, yet from the other I’m not a drain on the healthcare system, only using it when absolutely necessary. I guess what I mean to say with that is that unless something snaps, I won’t quickly be found in the hospital or doctor’s office, though on an enabling budget the health food store would be a regular stop.

Well, the combination of some decent tunes and some keyboard banging seems to have done the trick.