The road less cycled

We surveyed the lower reaches of Stoney Creek this morning, the three of us and Slesse. Already there are salmon here; a welcome change from 2007, the first year that this creek was surveyed, when salmon and only coho didn’t appear until mid-to-late November. Today there were 2 chum and 2 coho in just the lower section, with 2/3 of the creek left unsurveyed to date, something that will be done soon.

Stoney is such a great indicator stream to survey; without question one of if not the best in Abbotsford. It’s entire riparian strip remains relatively intact, unlike many streams that flow through farmland or urban environments. At the same time, it’s watershed is quite heavily urbanized, creating high run-off conditions; usually something that is a strongly negative factor in a stream’s biological health. The creek is bordered in multiple places by well-used walking trails, meaning spawning populations and the streambed are heavily impacted by canines of all sorts, from the ones that gambol and frolic joyously in Stoney’s pools to the ones that plod morosely at their human companion’s heels. Lastly, the creek has seen heartening efforts at mitigation of some of our negative influences, with the culvert having been reconstructed to improve fish access during low water conditions, and large amounts of invasive blackberry having been removed and replaced with native vegetation, which admittedly is still too young to give the stream the same protection as the blackberry did, but will do a far better job of that when mature.

Stay tuned for pics and more reports, or better yet, come with us.

No, I’m not making a zombie movie.

I am bringing back spawner surveys for Stoney Creek, together, of course, with the Stoney Creek Salmon Stalkers. In 2007 we definitively counted 31 spawning coho salmon returning to east Abbotsford’s Stoney Creek, and quite likely several more that we couldn’t verify. In 2008, we were AWOL. MIA. Showing gross dereliction of duty. Clean and dry.

This year, the Stalkers are back. Weekly, or semi-weekly, we’ll be tramping up Stoney Creek, counting how many spawning chum, coho, and chinook (now there’s a pipe dream) have made it all the way upriver to Stoney. To speak no more of this, a la Peter Donaldson. To mate. To die.

You’re welcome to join us. Requested in fact, even if it’s only for one session, or two, that would help. Will you see salmon? No guarantee of that, unfortunately, but there are guarantees. Fresh, crisp Autumn air. Exercise. Getting to know one of your local creeks. Seeing other wildlife. So join us. Tramp up and down Stoney Creek a few times. Write down what you see, and we’ll get a second year of salmon data for Stoney Creek.

You might have heard that our salmon stocks aren’t doing so well. 9/10ths of our sockeye disappeared this summer. It’s true that coho and chum aren’t sockeye. But they’re still important. They teach us about the cycle of life. Our large predators, bears, eagle, and the small ones too, the larvae and insects, feed on them. Even the trees and plants are nourished by our salmon. They tell us how our ocean is doing. Whether it’s able to produce food for our priceless salmon stocks, or whether we’re overfishing it, or trashing it. In this circle of life, the Stoney Creek Salmon Stalkers will play a small role. One that hopefully enhances community awareness of fragile salmon stocks, and encourages responsible lifestyle choices that both strengthen the community and are salmon-friendly.

We’re working under the auspices of the Abbotsford Ravine Park Salmonid Enhancement Society, in close collaboration with the Fraser Valley Regional Watersheds Coalition. The ARPSES actually started when a guy who had grown up in the Clayburn Watershed, of which Stoney Creek is a part, returned from military service, and noticed that the creek didn’t play host to nearly as many salmon as it had when he was a child. So he started a salmon hatchery to reverse this trend, and every year the hatchery now releases thousands of salmon fry into fragile, urbanized Stoney Creek. Is it working?

We won’t know unless you join us and help us find out.

This here’s a site that’s very special to me. It might look like little more than a jumble of weeds and brush, but it’s far more than that. It’s located on the site of my old high school, tucked in behind the elementary school where the creek runs. Downes Creek.

Five years ago this site was decked out in head high blackberry thickets from one fence to the other. Around the time of my grad year, and the year after that, some friends of mine, all students, calling ourselves The Streaming Eagles (after the school mascot), began doing some restoration work on the creek, and we began with this site.

We used hand held clippers, and lots of hot chocolate and muffins, and worked away at clearing the blackberries on many a weekend. Then we were able to use a grant available through the DFO to purchase a whole bunch of native plants and then one fine morning we re-planted the entire site with natives – Pacific Ninebark, Black Twinberry, Baldhip Rose, cedars and hemlock, Bigleaf Maple, Red-Osier Dogwood, and others. This is what the site looks like now. Some of the blackberry has recovered, but the natives are also doing well. This site is well on its way to recovery now; in 10 years or so the native vegetation should have a good strong foothold, requiring very little maintenance.

Today I spent a few hours back in the blackberry patch, clearing out all the blackberries that have begun to establish themselves. Many of the natives we planted are doing ok, but two of the cedars have succumbed.

Red-osier Dogwood canes, gleaming red against the snow.

The creek, small but worthy of restoration.

As long as I’m on the Master Cleanse, and today is officially my first day, I’ll generally take it easy and be home more than I usually would. Today, I’m blogging from the familiar confines of..wait for it…my bathroom, waiting for the saline flush that is an integral component of the Cleanse to take effect. Earlier, I went for a short walk in The Field – the open expanse bisected by a headwater tributary of Downes Creek that lies behind our house.

It’s still snow covered, but all this rain has rapidly diminished the snowpack, so that now it’s no more than 15-20 cm. It was quiet and desolate, as the dominant sounds were the harsh cries of dozens of crows swooping from tree to tree, stopping to dive-bomb the two red-tailed hawks that were present.

Down by the stream, I discovered that we have resident beaver. We’ve never seen beaver in this stream before, though we have seen muskrat, mink, and otter on occasion. Today however, the tell-tale signs of beaver were very evident – several young trees, cottonwood and birch, were chewed through to a pointy stump at around knee height, and toppled into the stream. Also, several shrubs – red elderberry, Pacific willow, red-osier dogwood – that have been holding the line against invasive blackberry bushes  – had also been chewed through, probably to provide winter food for the beaver. I suspect these beaver may be the offspring of those down in Downes Bowl Park, having moved upstream in search of new habitat.

The property owners have spoken in the past about having to eliminate beaver because they were flooding the field. I hope this isn’t legal, as in a headwater tributary such as this, beavers could do so much good for the ecosystem’s productivity. Prospects don’t look good however; to date, the property owners have more or less had their way with the area, taking out a concrete dam (a move of which I approved, though there will be some erosion as a result), and putting in a new bridge over the creek, as well as clearing large amounts of streamside vegetation.

I’d post some photos, but my battery died as I tried to take some shots. I know that when I move, I’ll miss this place tremendously. It’s an ordinary piece of rural property, but to me it’s special.

It’s nearly sacrilegious or heretical in our society to openly express acceptance of littering, or to actually engage in it oneself. In high school, Principal Neufeld spoke of using the amount of litter in the hallways as a barometer of student’s attitudes. At the time I agreed in full; and to some extent still do. If the hallways are cluttered with garbage of all sorts, it’s generally an indication that the students don’t give a shit, which would appear to translate to more than simply the cleanliness of the hallways; also their marks, morals, values, etc. Concern for one’s habitation (and make no mistake, school was and is a habitation) is a basic benchmark of character. Ever hear someone labelled a “pack-rat?” Well, I doubt that person was a socially respected individual.

There are exceptions of course; some people are just natural tinkerers, fixers, refurbishers, recyclers of whatever they can lay their hands on. These people are driven and can’t stand waste, hate to see anything thrown out. So they don’t. Instead, they’re always welding this gizmo to that gadget, and coming out with some pretty spiffy stuff. Kudos to them. But for every one of them, there’s five who never throw anything out regardless of it’s condition, and seem to attract “stuff” like a messy beard attracts food crumbs or blood draws sharks. The metaphors are appropriate, as more than likely they have the messy beard as well, and like sharks, their stuff will eventually consume them, weighing on their backs until they can turn neither left nor right and stagger with each step. Remember the late and brilliantly offensive George Carlin saying how, “Other people’s stuff is shit, but somehow your shit is stuff”?

Of course, dirty hallways can also be indicative of apathy at higher levels; perhaps the administration simply doesn’t care enough to adequately fund the janitorial department, or the janitors take every chance to slack off, or in the case of my high school, (remember, this is hypothetical) the private donors don’t care enough to actually donate in adequate levels forcing budget cutbacks, or hell, perhaps dirty hallways can be traced right up to those who control our money supply not caring enough to manage it wisely, generously, responsibly, or perhaps most of all, honestly. Truly, there’s a crescendo of implications.

But let’s not think about this too deeply; we might just hurt ourselves or actually accomplish something and we couldn’t have that. Oh no. Let’s just accept that littering is bad and those who do it are lazy and apathetic and that lots of litter means bad people and clean streets mean good people. Keep it simple, stupid.

Before I continue, let me point out that I’ve participated in garbage clean-ups, and not just at the behest of an elementary school teacher in a bad mood and equipped with lots of bright new shiny garbage picker-uppers, or, just to use my favorite childhood phrase, “super-dooper-pooper-scoopers.” No, stretches of Clayburn Road, Clayburn Creek, Ravine Park, and Downes Creek are all cleaner because I felt the desire to chip in and lend a hand, or in the case of Downes, herd some of the fearsome “Streaming Eagles” crew down into the creek to haul out whatever we could find.

What happened next, to use the Downes Creek example, to the 11 garbage bags of wrappers, busted sports balls, barely recognizable bottles, and other miscellaneous junk we hauled out of that creek? We put it in the school dumpster for a garbage collection agency to come and collect, and lo and behold, to dump it again!!! That’s right. We put in all the effort (a good part of our weekend as I recall, to haul this shit out, just so it could be re-dumped, several hours drive away. How does this make sense?

Moreover, what actually benefit did we do the creek? Sure it looked a little nicer to the human eye, but I don’t think a coho salmon decked out in bright red spawning colors would look at that little pocket of intertwined condoms wedged in a back-eddy behind a log, and turn tail back downstream because “boy, I don’t know if I can spawn in the vicinity of used condoms.” (and for that matter, the contents of those condoms might well enrich that streambanks nutrient profile, lol) No, that old tire wedged in the streambank might take thousands if not tens of thousands of years to decay, so it’s not significantly affecting the water quality. Nor is it likely to be impeding fish progress, or in any way posing an immediate threat to wildlife or the local ecosystem. One exception would be six-pack rings which can strangle waterbirds, or plastic bags which can do the same, but in general, I think we can agree that a lot of garbage is fairly harmless.

So now we’ve taken our 11 garbage bags and dumped them. All we’ve done is re-arranged the waste and emitted tons of carbon in order to do, and oh yes, we’ve bumped up the GDP a notch because us urbanites paid those Cache Creek hill-billies money to take our crap. Whoopee. Now the waste is all concentrated in one area where nobody can see it, instead of being spread out where everybody sees it. So what happens next? Well, out of sight, out of mind is what happens. We accept that we can simply send our waste elsewhere. We subconsciously condition ourselves to believe that it’s okay to generate copious quantities of waste because it doesn’t affect us tangibly. We don’t think twice about buying those oh so tempting muffins from the supermarket and throwing out the package afterwards only to repeat the process next week. Sure we can sometime recycle the package, but only for a limited time and not neccesarily for the same purpose, besides which recycling takes energy too. Eventually it’ll still end up in Cache Creek.

What if instead of doing those garbage clean-ups, we had dedicated our time to educating people about the automotive waste fluids which undoubtably affect Downes Creek? I’m by no means advocating apathy here. Merely that efforts be re-directed, as has become almost cliche in the health-care field, towards addressing the issues rather than the symptoms. Instead of picking up somebody else’s garbage, why not write to manufacturers indicating the future loss of your business should they not take whatever steps possible to reduce packaging? Or put time into re-vegetation of the streambanks (which we did, too)? Or any number of projects with potentially valuable long-term impact?

Do I regret participating in those garbage pick-ups? No; the exercise did me well and I made friends out of it, and gained some great feelings of accomplishment, because at the time, I believed wholeheartedly in what I was doing. My opinions have evolved; hey, if Stephane Dion can evolve his opinion of a revenue-neutral carbon tax that affects an entire country, I think I can update my thinking about garbage. Because, as I can’t resist pointing out, my thoughts ain’t garbage.

Neither do I regret, however, releasing two organic energy bar wrappers and a bag that contained mixed nuts out of my sunroof today. I may have ruffled some feathers, but that’s about all.

What I do regret is buying items wrapped in plastic in the first place. That is true apathy. I am conscious of this when I buy, and I will buy items wrapped in plastic again because I’m one person on a schedule, but perhaps it’s time to re-examine packed lunches and homemade snacks. Were I truly motivated, it’s what I’d be doing.

That’s right; brown-bag it. Just like your momma taught ya.

You might be able to detox in a matter of days, but the planet can’t. No, the planet, needs thousands of years, and you just might not survive that process. I, for one, would rather not risk it.

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.

<Author’s note: If anybody’s still reading this far down, I thought it would be humourous to point out my ignorant usage of the phrase “doggy-style,” which I recently realized has strong sexual connotations…something I’m all the more aware of after reading Richard Van Camp’s “The Lesser Blessed.”  Oops End note>

The cold penetrates the thick blanket I’ve awkwardly wrapped around myself, and I drowsily wake to the realization that it’s finally morning. I’m still curled up doggy-style – the only comfortable position I’ve been able to find while jammed into the close confines of my car seat. I’ve wished all night I was sleeping in an Oldsmobile or anything with a texture that doesn’t resemble that of the Canadian Shield so much.

I’ve only had about four hours of broken sleep, having arrived in Chilliwack’s Promontory Hills around 3:00 a.m. Now it’s 7:30 a.m. as I groggily decide it’s time to rev ‘er up and generate some heat again. The plan is to head over to the coffee shop corner store I noticed on the way up to write this piece for my creative non-fiction course. On the way down, the warmth slowly fills the interior of my car, and my mind activates accordingly. I’m quietly exuberant, having survived my first night sleeping in my car. I descend slowly in order to take in the view which the shimmering lights far below informed me last night would be so magnificent in the morning. And it is, despite being blocked by trees. Trees which howled the entire night, buffeted by strong winds cresting the ridge and caused me to consider moving to somewhere less prone to falling branches. I played the odds however, knowing it would have to be an exceptionally large branch to actually damage my car, and also that in such a wind-prone location, the trees have adapted to it, and aren’t any more likely to snap than anywhere else.

As I drive, my mind turns to my vegan friend GB who I know must have lived just over the ridge in the Ryder Lake area, having grown up in these hills only to recently abandon them in favour of the big city. The landscape, too, fills my thoughts – all the modern, sprawling development I witnessed on the way, and the sharp, rapid transition from urban residential to rural, bucolic back-country. I think also of the freedom allowed by my car – the freedom to go where I please and do what I choose as long as I’m able to pay the costs that come with having a car, not to mention being willing to quell the guilt I feel at becoming such a gas-guzzling roadhog despite my avidly professed preference for cycling and mass transit. Also, I reflect on my ‘lone wolf’ status – I’m somewhat of a renegade, keeping to myself and not really keeping in touch with friends the way I should. The lone wolf thing is somewhat appropriate – I’ve not met many people with whom I’m completely at ease, and any awkwardness might just compromise the moment.

I’m still winding my way down the ridge, but decide to turn into a side-road on a whim. It takes me though an under-construction subdivision and over a murky little stream, its water milky grey, likely fouled by ongoing development related erosion. Continuing up, I find myself at Falcon Heights, just past Thom Creek Park, an elegantly named subdivision with a magnificent view. I leave the car at roadside and go for a short amble, hands stuffed into my pockets in reaction to the blustery chill which blasts me. Sprawled out before me is the heart of Chilliwack and the surrounding farmland. On the far horizon is Chilliwack Mountain, dusted in white and jutting out of the flat landscape like a zit on otherwise perfect skin. As I attune to my surroundings, I notice a raptor dropping out of the sky, wings swept back – avian akimbo – to reduce air resistance. I can’t identify it – it’s a mere silhouette against a grey sky, but it looks about the size of a red-tail. I’m high enough, and it drops down far enough, that soon I’m looking down on it – always a surreal experience. The bird swoops down and joins another of its species – they dance and ride the winds together.

Falcon Heights, it appears, is well named, unlike many of today’s subdivisions which are typically named in romantically hypocritical fashion after the natural features and wildlife which they displace. I have a bumper sticker which reads, “Suburbia: Where we tear out the trees and then name streets after them.” Bumper stickers are my way of getting people to think about these things – I have a captive audience whenever I’m stuck in traffic – why not provide them with some amusement? Not quite as much fun as weaving through bumper-to-bumper traffic on my bicycle, but enjoyable nonetheless. I jump back in my car and as I circle back the way I came, I notice the air is rife with raptors – perhaps they’re out for a bit of a thrill in the windy weather. Ravens, too, play in the strong gusts of wind. If it were not completely opposed to my worldview, I could see myself living here – it’s that pretty. I can certainly see the attraction to living in this place, and why there’s a market for this type of car-oriented development. Still, I don’t like it.

Most of all though, I wonder at myself. Why don’t I enjoy these early mornings more often, instead of staying up late and sleeping in the following morning? To use a car analogy, why don’t I spend more time in fifth gear, rather than coasting around in neutral?