The road less cycled

The caterpillar

Crawls on cold hard asphalt

Bike tire swerves

I’d like to honour the artwork of some creative, bold, artistic, youth obviously very much in the grip of adolescence.  The gallery was the sidewalk and streetside of Tims Avenue in Abbotsford, where I delivered some pizza, and the audience, God, the sky, and the world.  Admission was gratis and pour votre plaisir, monsieur!  (apologies if I butchered that). 

Chalked on the sidewalk were the following phrases, which I publish here in the aim of airing some healthy adolescent spirit and in the remote chance that one of the authors might stumble across this post through Google and be pleasantly surprised.

“Amanda was here!”

“Jeremiah rocks my world!”

{Flower} Day (with “flower” in illustrated form).

“Amber & Monika 4ever!”

“Steevi Star the Porn Star!”

“Pussypoppin’!”

“God Bless all of us!”

“Be happy, don’t worry about a thing!”

Some would say such phrases are evidence of teens displaying an unhealthy obsession with sexuality at too young an age.  Others might disapprove of what they would call a vulgar expression of it, and they might rather these kids be writing limericks, haikus, or learning ballet.  What I can say unequivocally is that I’ve never been in favor of bottling anything up, and that sexual curiosity is going to be there whether it’s clandestinally kept under wraps or not.  Same argument with swearing – there’s nothing wrong with the swear word itself, it’s merely the expression of a genuine emotion.  If anything, the trick is in not allowing the angry, potentially destructive emotion which is the root of the swear to dominate. 

Would we rather our kids be lounging on couches with one hand on the game controller and the other in a bag of pretzels?  I thought not.

Travel Writing – English 215

Landon-Sealey is his last name. James o’ the Land an’ the Sea. We first meet him when his portly little brown van swoops down on us as we walk along the main road to Fulford. Fulford is one of three main villages on Saltspring Island, the largest being Ganges and the other Vesuvius. James, in the way of a true Saltspring Islander, seems to have determined that any young man and woman with large backpacks walking at the roadside are undoubtedly in need of a lift, despite the absence of raised thumbs. He asks if he can help us get somewhere and we say “Yes, we’re on our way to Salt Spring Seeds on Blackburn Road, are you going near there?”

“I can take you to right to Blackburn Road,” he replies.

That’s good enough for us. Judging by the scale of the map it’s a good forty minute walk to Blackburn and another fifteen to Salt Spring Seeds, so we gladly hop in the back, noticing with amusement at the ubiquity of hitch-hiking here that another traveler gets out as we get in. Jubilantly I exclaim, “Saltspring Island – no thumbs required!” and settle into a squatting position. The back of the van contains a mattress in place of seats, a bag with a carton of fresh eggs that I’m advised to be careful of, some potatoes and assorted produce, and a copy of Watership Down. James and the friend who occupies the passenger seat have evidently been shopping at the famed Saturday Saltspring Market, and they’re now on their way back to the town of Fulford. I’m traveling with HH, my hiking partner from last summer and one-time whirlwind girlfriend, and both being intuitively conscious of hitch-hiking etiquette, (though on some of the other hitches we receive this weekend we do commit the foolish mistake of allowing her to enter the vehicle first), we strike up conversation with James and his friend. One of the rudest things you can do as a hitch-hiker is to show your gratitude by morosely sitting in the back until the ride is over.

I’m asked the obligatory question about where we’re from, and respond that “We’re here from the Fraser Valley and on our way to the Saltspring Organic Seed Company, where I had hoped to intern over the summer, and although I won’t be working there because Dan (the proprietor) has enough people now, we’re here because I felt like coming to Saltspring anyway just to see what it’s like.”

“Oh yes? I actually work there, at Saltspring Seeds, on and off” James’s friend, whose name I don’t catch, chimes in with this surprising statement.

“Oh? So you know Dan Jason?” I ask.

I get a nod in reply. “I’m not sure if he’s there today though – you could be out of luck.”

James doesn’t say much, he’s concentrating on driving, but his friend chats with us about life on the farm and the work he does there, so right away we have something in common, though as we’re let off at Blackburn Road, I have the distinct impression that we had something in common with James Landon-Sealey and his friend the moment we stepped into their van. Later we’re to find out that in fact, we have more in common with James than we could have guessed.

As we walk up Blackburn Road, with great glee and soaring spirits at the freedom bestowed by Saltspring generosity, we indulge our writing instincts by discussing the possibilities.

“Saltspring Island: No Thumbs Required will be the title of an article,” HH states resolutely.

“Yes, that is rather perfect,” I agree. “And we could do a Hitchhiking 101, or Hitchhiker’s Etiquette as well.”

“Yeah, because we’re experts now, aren’t we?”

“Oh yes,” I emphatically agree. “We’ve got this down to an art – nothing to it all, just keep your thumbs in your pockets and you’re bound to get a lift.”

We revel in the scenery, and the silence, and talk quietly of books and poetry and hitch-hiking. In passing a golf course, I propose excitedly that “Maybe we can get in a few holes of golf!”

HH is less than enthusiastic over this suggestion, saying scornfully that “golf is for odd people in plaid pants and funny hats.”

Catching my eye, she bursts out in laughter as she notices the pants and Ravine Park Salmon Hatchery baseball cap I’m wearing – the pants are actually tweed, not plaid, but at the moment the distinction is lost on us, and I give her a light shove: “You said that on purpose!”

“No, I didn’t, honest!” A sparkle appears in her eyes, and I believe her because you can’t look in those eyes and do otherwise. I join in the laughter, and of course we don’t end up golfing and it’s for the best, as in all honesty golf is nothing more than paying a lot of money for somebody to manicure a piece of turf and use bucket loads of pesticides so you can smack a little white ball around, when you could be reading Kerouac or cycling or making music or writing poetry or any number of useful things. (see comment below – this golf course is ORGANIC).

Presently we come to Saltspring Seeds, and as we enter the driveway a lady from the Yoga Centre which shares the property stops as she’s pulling into the driveway and enquires as to what we’re doing there. We explain, and she politely but firmly tells us the farm proprietor – Dan Jason – isn’t there that day, and she can’t offer us a place to camp. Probably the experience of backpackers arriving spontaneously on the doorstep is a common one, and she’s learned that to avoid being overwhelmed it’s best to turn them away and enforce a consistent standard. We amble around a bit and admire the lotus-shaped garden beds and Hindi figures on a bench and the serenity of the setting, but leave quickly and take another route back to the city of Ganges, on foot this time. We won’t get the chance to meet Dan Jason, proprietor of Saltspring Seeds and author of several books on seed-saving, back-yard food gardening, and living a holistic lifestyle, on this trip.

Back in Ganges, we realize it might be useful to have a tarp, as we have only one twenty year old semi-water proof pup tent. We have chosen a site with good cover on the unselfish advice of the proprietor of another campsite, but still feel the tarp would be useful and set out to find one, but arrive too late at Mouat’s hardware, and as we’re too late in the evening for the bookstore and the tourist information centre as well, we walk to the campsite and set up for the night. I’ve inexplicably lost my newly purchased Mountain Equipment Co-op tent somewhere between the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal and the Long Harbour terminal on Saltspring, an incredible feat that casts a shade of doubt on the impeccability and innocence of my intentions. It’s true however, I’ve genuinely misplaced it despite the appearance of this being an elaborate scheme to gain some “proximity”, so we resign ourselves to the awkward necessity of sharing a one person pup-tent. HH remarks stoically “Well, that modifies our sleeping arrangements,” and I nod impassively. (Later we would find the tent on the passenger side of my vehicle). For me the flame hasn’t died, and I’m not looking forward to this in the slightest – what kind of sardonic sense of humour does the universe have anyway, to put us in this situation!?

We enjoy a relaxed evening at Moby’s, the pub on the bay where last summer HH’s sister instigated a riot among the locals by asking about a controversial and mysterious character named Wolf. Here the night-lights make the water sparkle and shimmer among the gently rocking, sleeping boats, and dreams of piracy and adventure in stolen boats course through our heads while the Canucks lose 7-1 to Calgary to cap off a failure of a season that is nearly irrelevant to me. Afterwards we stroll back through Ganges and then stumble back through the woods to our camp-site, only mildly inebriated. The darkness obscures the way, and the little wind-up flashlight we possess is only of minimal help, but we grimly soldier on, and after several wrong turns eventually manage to locate our camp, in part due to a white Darth Vader-like insignia spray-painted on the side of an outhouse acting as a marker. The Force is with us, and we sleep amidst a raucous chorus of tree frogs, tossing and turning and shivering, refusing to unearth buried passions.

It’s 10:00 the next morning, and we stride into the coffee-house headquarters of the Saltspring Coffee Company, where HH spots James o’ the Land an’ the Sea quietly scribbling away at a notepad and sipping a cup of jasmine green tea. I buy a cup of ginger green tea and sit down to devour a sandwich I’ve brought from home, forgetting where I am and that this might be inappropriate until HH gently reminds me. We slip outside where we can eat our own food without feeling guilty, and are glad to be joined by James, with whom we chat amiably, each glad for the company. We’re eager to learn firsthand about Saltspring and he’s obviously thrilled to learn more about us. Gentle creases line his weathered face, and wispy hair hangs down around his ears. He wears a magnificent hand-woven woolen sweater, which we learn he obtained on a trip to Mexico, and we discover that James is an Abbotsford refugee and former UCFV student. Immediately we begin fondly sharing anecdotes about current and former UCFV instructors, from “Ice Queen” Myriam Nichols to the talented Tim Herron. We share our respective educational pathways and discuss beat literature and then we share poetry while throwing chunks of bread to the bold, beady-eyed crows and a dainty little female house sparrow. I feel as if I’ve discovered a kindred spirit in James, and as HH and I get up to leave, we all share e-mail addresses, and I’m assured that should I ever come back to Saltspring, I’d be more than welcome to stay at James’s place. I’m thrilled to hear this – I’m of the firm opinion that to have friends scattered round the world is of more value than life insurance, a hotel, and deep pockets put together.

Who knew British Columbian ferries were capable of whirling passengers to a different world? A world where the gentle wash of rolling ocean meeting stony bluffs permeates the nooks and crannies of the humble towns? A world where the pace of life slows to a walk, and people quietly go about their business, minding the numerous shops which line the main street – a main street which isn’t a ramrod straight four lane pedestrian hazard zone dotted with traffic lights, gigantic parking lots, strip malls, and fast food restaurants like you’ll find in many a modern city, but rather a meandering, pedestrian frequented roadway with numerous crosswalks, where drivers consider pedestrians when turning, and all sorts of specialty shops line the sidewalks – music outlets, art stores, a library, natural food stores, chocolate and gelato shops, coffee shops, and even a cobbler. The people here are easygoing and genuine and passionate, loving their beautiful island and all that it has to offer. Tall, lush trees watch the city from the hills, and as we reluctantly depart this island and sail back across the Salish Sea, we know that someday we’ll be back.

Driving back from Tsawwassen, we fill the car with softly lilting Irish tunes from a CD we found lying on the beach at Grace Point, as if by magic unopened, still packaged in plastic, and only slightly wet. It’s truly a gift from the universe. I drive slowly without talking, because speed no longer matters. Time is eternal and can’t be hurried and the music says all that there is to be said.

Where do I see myself in 3,4,5 years from now?  To be entirely honest, it’s not something I’ve thought about a great deal.  I have no neatly etched plan for my future, and I haven’t any more than the slightest inkling where I want to take my life.  There was a time, not too long ago, where I had formed the determination to focus entirely on financial independence by learning all I could about saving and investing, and implementing what I learned so that eventually the money I had invested would generate enough interest to provide a comfortable, if not luxuriant, annual income.  This would free me to dedicate my time to whatever I should choose, be it activism, travel and adventure, literature, charity, my hobbies, or more likely, some healthy combination of the above.

            I had put together a financial wall-chart, tracking my earnings and my expenditures, as well as the interest from my investments, with the idea that when the line of interest crossed the line of income – “The Crossover Point” – I’d be free, being vulnerable only to the most drastic downturn in the stockmarkets.  Then I started to do some math.  Assuming the markets returned roughly 8%-12% annually, a very reasonable assumption given the average rate of return for the past century or so, I’d need in the neighbourhood of $750 000 invested to generate an annual income of $60 000 – $90 000.  Taking into account the power of compound interest, and not having a calculator capable of doing the exponential functions necessary for this calculation, it would take perhaps 20-30 years to save up this amount.  Would it be worth working my tail off to save up this amount?  Yes, from the perspective of having a secure and comfortable retirement.  However, the prospect of dedicating the years of my youth almost entirely to work and not having the opportunity to travel or participate in all the activities (sports, yoga, vegan cooking, camping/bike trips, music, community involvement, and just plain hanging out) that interest me is rather daunting.

            Additionally, after putting $1 600 into an RRSP in 2006, I began to contemplate the ethical nature of these sorts of investments.  The mainstream stock market, and I’d be investing primarily in mutual funds, is in large part responsible for the environmental crisis facing our society.  Most companies held in mutual funds are not companies I feel comfortable investing in.  Even the emerging and blossoming field of Socially Responsible Investing, or SRI, isn’t really satisfactory – more often than not, if you dig into the companies held by some of the bigger SRI firms, you still find that they’re investing in not so green oil and gas firms, big financial institutions, and others of that ilk.  What’s really needed to green up our economy is local investment – investment in smaller, locally owned companies with good business philosophy and a firm commitment to sustainability – companies you’ll have a hard time finding held by the large mutual fund companies, and also companies unlikely to return large dividends.,

            Perhaps the mainstream economy isn’t for me.  I’m starting to realize that my path is much more closely aligned with operating principles such as co-operative housing and sustainable, organic, agriculture.  With such ideas as the Yarrow Ecovillage, or the Windsong Co-operative in Langley, as well as the Glen Valley Organic Farm.  All of these are innovative, leading edge operations which epitomize my concept of a re-tooled sustainable economy which transcends conventional economics.  Being as involved with Rail for the Valley activism as I am, and knowing that the line, if restored, would go right past Yarrow, perhaps becoming a member of the Yarrow Ecovillage co-operative is the way to go, and it’s something I’m considering very seriously.  Being in the construction phase now, just being involved and helping with the unfolding plans would be a worthy experience in itself. 

            Three years from now I definitely see myself holding some sort of a degree, though lately I’ve been waffling and straying from my Geography path, really enjoying my English and Psychology classes.  Double major?  Geog. Major, English minor?  I even hold studying at UBC, SFU, or some other university offering a more complete campus experience as a lofty, pie-in-the-sky pipe dream.  Perhaps I ought not to characterize it that way.  If that’s what I really want to do, well, I’m sure I could find a way to make it happen.  I’m burdened, however, with familial responsibilities and financial constraints – I’m not interested in being so financially crimped that I’m unable to fully focus on studies.  The more I consider it, the more I feel that UCFV is the place to finish my degree.

            I suppose that at this point in time, my most pressing goals are a) to see more of the world – do some travelling, and b) meet new people, establish relationships, and explore myself through them.  Though perhaps I could do a better job of maintaining the relationships I do have.

            On the whole, three or more years from now, I see myself as a much more well-rounded person, having explored my artistic and spontaneous sides.  Perhaps I live in a sustainable community with like-minded people, a community that offers such attractions as a community garden, energy efficient building style, easy access to public transit, a library and bookstore, co-operative daycare, an inclusive and accessible theatre, music, and dance program housed at an arts centre.  I’m not be single, but not a parent either, and the relationship is very free, open, trusting, and rewarding.  We’re not chained to each other and can function independently if one needs some solitude, but are excited to face life together, and each day is productive and fun-filled.  It’s the nearest I can come to describing utopia as I understand it.

            Somewhere between now and then is a tour of Europe with a focus on Holland – a trip with the potential to de-rail, or rather, re-route, all of the above.

From an early age, I’ve been extremely likely to have my nose buried in a book; this dates well back to my childhood, when a visit to the local library was a weekly occurrence. To recall the literally hundreds of books which passed through my hands would take days, and make for an interesting trip down memory lane. Favourite reading material included Matt Christopher sports novels, Ranger Rick outdoor adventure magazines, The Boxcar Children, Swallows and Amazons, Jim Kjelgaard’s fast-paced wild animal stories, and Dick King-Smith’s lovable anthropomorphized animal tales. Kjelgaard’s “Chip the Dam Builder” has a special place in my memory, it being one of the first full length novels I completed and one of the first victims of my newfound reading abilities.

I proceeded through elementary school always being a year or so older than my classmates, due to my October birth which permitted my parents to hold off on sending me to Kindergarten until near my 6^th birthday. Perhaps partially as a result, I was reading full length novels in Kindergarten. The first that I recall completing was intrigue/nature writer Jim Kjelgaard’s Chip the Dam Builder. A longtime naturalist, Kjelgaard penned many adventurous stories starring both wild animals and people. Chip the Dam Builder chronicled the life of an adult male beaver, Chip, who is driven away from his colony by a sixth sense that alerts him to the arrival of poachers. Chip then travels upstream, beginning a new colony with the help of those who survived the raid. The novel goes on to chronicle Chip’s interactions with various wild animals, including Shadow the Lynx, a pair of river otters, an owl, and others, all of which were christened with human names that haven’t survived fifteen years of being knocked around inside my memory. The novel climaxes when Chip drowns the lynx after Shadow attempts to pick off one of Chip’s young during a cold spell. The story is rife with small details about the natural world that only someone like Kjelgaard, a forest ranger who would eventually commit suicide in 1959, could describe expertly. He describes numerous animal behaviours in a way that was incredibly entertaining to a young boy of 6-10 years old, for I read and re-read the novel many times after the age of 6.

As a young boy whose interests fixated almost entirely around animals and nature, sports, and chess, such writing helped to develop an early, almost instinctive, passion for the natural world. It was pure writing. No melodramatization or expositions on environmental conservation. No subtle glorification of violence and war, in fact very little human drama. The human characters were almost all of the hardy, back-country woodsmen type, mostly men – perhaps Kjelgaard didn’t feel comfortable writing about women, because I have no recollection of any women appearing in his stories. The men are often bachelors, single young men, or widowers; bushmen, perhaps along the lines of those you might find in the popular TV program “Men in Trees.” Chip the Dam Builder is a straight-up, fictionalized account of wild animal behaviour, not dressed up or hyperbolized, and it’s good literature simply for not pretending to be something it isn’t.

Inevitably, books do go out of print, and I haven’t seen a copy of Chip for many years now. Neither the public nor the university libraries stock it; perhaps the only source for it now is Ebay, or perhaps a large chain such as Chapters. Such is the case with much of Kjelgaard’s work. Popular for many years, local libraries now carry less and less of it as newer titles supplant it and the surviving editions are slowly dispersed through book sales. Chip holds the distinction of being the first novel I completed, as well as the first to be subject to one of my book reports. After all these years, it still occupies a central place in my mental literature bank. In the library of books I’ve read, it would be located larger than life, front and center on some of the first shelves you’d see when you entered. And it would always be in print.