TOFINO TIME

Wickaninnish Waves

The wild shores of Clayoquot Sound
sang a siren song to me,
for years before I journeyed there,
before I ever saw the perfection
of its beauty.
It called me out of the desert
into the rainforest, thick and lush,
whose ancient spirits
already knew my name.
It took a mighty leap of trust
to answer that call
and I was fearful, though
I had no idea just how brave a leap that was,
until I found how difficult it was to hold onto
my precarious perch
once I was there.

But I had to answer that call, or give up my dream
and I knew I couldn’t live without a dream.
I took the leap
and was rewarded with
the ten most joyous years of my life.
It calls to me still,
stuck in another desert of the heart.
From this grey little valley,
it calls me home as surely
as the marbled murelet
makes its way back home
from many miles away.

Its wave-song echoes forever through my heart,
and I am remembering, remembering again.
It’s a song of the clean and pungent air,
the salt spray,
white caps lined up and galloping in to shore
like white-maned horses,
the song of the wild waves, rolling and crashing
over black volcanic rock on Frank’s Island,
and the roiling churn of The Cauldron
at the foot of its cliffs,
I, atop and peering down. The wonder!

In my mind, Meares Island is rising up,
full-bosomed and blushing rose in late afternoon,
maternal protection for a village full of conscious souls,
who live on the edge of the edge of the world,
by choice, in love with place.
My eyes, my soul, sang a love song to that place
that sings inside me still.
It always will.
When I had to leave, I took Home with me,
wrapped the memory of that place around me,
the way a sand dollar makes its home
from the sand and grit around it,
and carries it along.

I miss it daily,
those waves undulating in and out
as steadily as Time,
those months and years that kaleidoscope
on fast forward,
until Joy is sixteen years past.
Tofino Time expands, and slows,
the Moment in clear focus, breath caught
in astonishment at its beauty.
Away, time rushes me along
like a whipped donkey,
yielding to the lash,
and dreaming of better days.
I recall the seabird’s cry, the roar of the surf,
the ancient melody of the great old trees,
in whose presence I felt at prayer.

I miss the sunsets, hidden behind the mountains
ringing this small lake valley.
Sometimes the evening sky is streaked with leftovers
from the beach, and I know what I’m missing:
sixteen years of sunsets missed. I yearn; I pine.
As those coloured remnants
streak the evening sky,
I look to the mountaintops.
Behind them, glorious West Coast sunsets
are unfolding.
On tiptoe, I can almost
see them shining.


The locals say, once in Tofino, you are on "Tofino time", when everything unfolds slowly, according to mood. I wrote this in response to a prompt to write about a "Call" answered. This was the biggest call of my life, requiring trust and courage. I was ecstatic once I responded, having made the one dream of my life come true. I have written about this mighty leap, and my time there, in prose in my "Love Song to Clayoquot Sound", and have borrowed some of the imagery from that piece, since I don't think I could express it in any other words. Some of my fave photos of the beach can be found in the prose piece, if you'd like to see the wonder of Clayoquot Sound - some of the most spectacular scenery on the planet, in my opinion.

For Verse First

Long Beach, Clayoquot Sound

The choice came down to staying in place,
where my soul was asleep,
but there was perceived security,
or making a huge leap into the unknown,
where nothing was known or secure,
but living the life of my dreams.

And I knew I couldn't live
without a dream.

So I gathered up all my courage
and possessions,
made the gigantic, trusting leap,
and my soul came alive
and flew!

Wow! Thirteen lines. I didn't count them till after I wrote the poem, for Verse First, at Poets United, where Kim has challenged us to write a poem in an authentic voice, in less than thirteen lines. Well, I could juggle a phrase to make it twelve, but am so freaked out by it being exactly thirteen I think I will leave it as is.

Cougar Annie

[This poem is about Ada Annie-Rae Arthur, who came to Clayoquot Sound in the early 1900's, settling on rough land near Hesquiat Harbour, which she worked her entire life to tame and cultivate. She is one of the notable characters of the area, surviving four husbands, personally killing 72 cougar, and raising and home schooling eleven children, in the small shack seen above. Cougar Annie also operated a thriving seed mail order business, and ran a post office for those on neighboring islands. The garden is now maintained and held in trust as a heritage property. The hope is that it will become a retreat in the near future.]

The poem was inspired by a quotation by David Whyte:

"I pull the bow out into the wide sea,
paddle dripping towards darkness,
and enter again
the quiet."

June 2001

In the fading light,
I can just make out the black shapes of the trees,
tall sentinels that darkly watch me pass,
roots tangled thickly down the ancient banks
right to the water's edge,
the shore held fast. 
Dip and lift,
the only sound the water's lick,
paddle moving cleanly 
through the spreading flow,
the low call of a sleepy owl,
winglift of swooping heron
in mid-flight.
Earth falls away,
above all a starshine glow,
inverted bowl of sky at night
protects me as I go.

 
Around the point, I drift into Cow Bay
where the big grays are feeding
in a pod.
A whoosh, a whoosh, a whoosh,
a vast arched back,
a fluke
and then the mystical descent:
their breath sounds like
the hidden voice
of God.


Dip of oar,
scattered droplets silvered by the moon,
to the head of Hesquiat Harbour
home so soon
to farm and garden
mine now, only mine:
husbands and children
spilled like the sands of time,
homestead clawed from tangled bush,
hardscrabble years
in which
I tamed this once wild patch
of ancient pine.

 
Now no one here but me,
no one to see:
the vibrant blooms that spread out everywhere,
unexpected garden
from unyielding soil, 
an unexpected life
of endless toil,
I now reflect upon.
I planted flowers and blooming bushes
all those years,
nourished with laughter,
watered well with tears,
they flourished longer
than leggy children,
grown and so swiftly gone.

Seventy years upon this place,
from young bride
to homesteader / hermit
no man stayed long beside.













At ninety
still a hard glint in my eyes
a-glistening,
my face bird-like, alert,
intent and listening,
hands cradling the rifle,
head cocked - hush!-
ears tuned for the sound
of cougar in the bush.

72 cougar I killed over the years,
mice and chickens' necks I snapped
without a thought.
Four husbands lived beside me
then they died;
eleven children brought
into the world,
eleven gone.
What mattered most
this place, the life
that living in it
wrought.
All gone now,
but this place meant for no other.
The blooms turn
their sweet faces up to meet me
like a lover.
The fog parts;
my canoe slips in between
the veil that hides
from this world the unseen.
These ghostly shores
I shall forever roam.
I'm Cougar Annie and I'm
heading Home.

I was moved to post this from my archives after attending an event that honored Cougar Annie last evening. Katrina Kadoski sang and told Annie's colorful story in her wonderful one-woman show called Cougar Annie Tales. Katrina lived in Cougar Annie's cabin and garden as caretaker, for a time. She composed all of the songs and her presentation on the Cougar Annie homestead and truly she brought the fiery character to life through her performance. Many in the audience were descendants of Cougar Annie, who had traveled from Tofino for the occasion.

The Heartbeat of Mother Earth

[Lynn Thompson Photography

Union Bay, B.C.

Clayoquot Blockade #93]

In the darkness before dawn, we gather around the fire. Men in dreads and thick sweaters tap their drums  softly, in a rhythm as steady as Mother Earth's own heart. Slowly, emerging from the darkness, we gather on the road.

The drumbeats

tap out

the heartbeat

of the earth mother.

Leaders give us our instructions: when they come, with their big trucks, their blowhorns, their injunctions, we will block the road. When they tell us to clear the way, we have a choice: we can move to the side; those willing to be arrested can remain. We are to be peaceful and respectful; this is a non-violent protest. We are as strong and steady as the trees we stand for. Our hearts are full: of fear, of solidarity, of love and passion for Mother Earth.

The drumbeats

tap out

the heartbeat

of the earth mother.

She is listening.

The trucks roll in. The police read the injunction. They tell us to clear the road. Some of us do. Many, many, do not. They sit down on the road. They link arms. The police move in. To our tears and applause, the Protectors are dragged off by arms and legs, to the police van; they are going to jail. We are weeping, outraged, joyous and fulfilled. Together, we are powerful. These are the most passionate mornings of my life. I was born to stand there on that road, for the trees, against the insanity of corporate greed, which lays waste the world to fill its coffers.

The drumbeats

tap out

the heartbeat

of the earth mother.

Her need is urgent.

Tomorrow morning, we will come again. All summer, we will come. It is the Summer of '93: the time is now.Time to say No More Clearcuts, No Jobs on a Dead Planet. This hour, today, we have delayed the carnage by a few hours. We are making it difficult for them to cut as many trees today.  We have shone an international spotlight on the logging practices in Clayoquot Sound, pristine old growth heritage trees, the lungs of our planet, being pulped for toilet paper and phone books, waste and carnage left behind on the devastated and stripped mountain slopes.

The drumbeat

taps out

the heartbeat

of the earth mother.

She is crying.

Thousands will come, from all over the world, to join us on the road. In the greatest incidence of civil disobedience in B.C.'s history, over 900  human beings will be arrested for standing on the road for the trees. Eventually, the multinationals withdraw. Clayoquot Sound is declared a Unesco Biosphere Reserve. But now it is 2011, and the trees are  in danger once more. Will those who care about the future ever be heard, against the clamor of capitalistic greed?

The drumbeat

taps out

the heartbeat

of the earth mother.

And now she is angry.

[Lynn Thompson Photography

Union Bay, B.C.

Clayoquot Blockade #92]

(Note: This is Sally Sunshine. The year after this photo was taken

of her on the Kennedy River Bridge, during the blockades,

sadly Sally fell from a deck and was paralyzed.]

Clayquot Sound : the Danger Mounts

[Pristine Flores Island, in Clayoquot Sound : soon to be
logged - image from the Wilderness Committee]

My friend Christine Lowther, a poet and environmental activist who has lived in Clayoquot Sound for almost two decades, sent out the following alarm this morning. She addresses it  
"To all who care about Clayoquot Sound":

CLAYOQUOT SOUND, STILL NOT SAVED!?

"BUT I THOUGHT CLAYOQUOT WAS A UNESCO BIOSPHERE RESERVE NOW?"
It is. That designation does not protect it!

Yes, Clayoquot Sound is no longer being cut by multinational corporations and is being cut by Iisaac, a First Nations-run company. BUT the rate of cut is increasing with more, not less, raw unprocessed logs leaving the Sound for who-knows-where, instead of staying at home creating more jobs with value added industries. Yes, tree retention is going down while cutblock size is increasing. Cedar, spruce and hemlock are the trees being logged; ALL hemlock trees go to pulp rather than value-added products. This means old-growth trees still going to paper (including toilet paper) in Clayoquot Sound. Surprised? Not only that, this happens under Forest Stewardship Certification (FSC).


Still buying unrecycled toilet paper?


On the ground, these clearcuts look like bombsites, the few skinny trees left standing soon to be blowdown, with huge stumps evidence of what was. Additionally, spilled oil was found in a salmon stream headwaters; the culvert was crushed. It's almost like the bad old days!


On Flores Island, Ahousaht territory, there is bright red new road flagging plus Helipad notes sprayed on cedar trunks. To flag and paint this area, trees have had to be cut for access - this is BEFORE the permit has been granted. This is some of the highest volume forest in Canada, meaning massive trees, the last of the planet's ancients. Iisaac was always supposed to shift to second growth forest for their logging, and to shift from raw export to value added manufacturing. But they have to log to pay off their debts from when they bought the tenure licence from Interfor, one of the companies that used to ravage the Sound, and in the scrambling to keep meeting interest payments these shifts have not been made.


The unnamed creek on Flores where the road flagging and helipad marking is, across from McKay Island? If Iisaac logs it, then the Memorandum of Understanding they signed with several environmental groups will have been disregarded. Yet that is evidently the plan. At the time of signing, the MOU was billed as a peace treaty in the "war in the woods" - a peace that has held for eleven years.


What can we do? As well as writing to government, write to Smartwood, the certifying body for FSC wood. Tell them their certification is meaningless in the case of Flores Island, and that certifying wood logged on Flores will backfire. And yes, it's important to write to the provincial government - the people who tell the Tla-o-qui-ahts it's illegal to declare tribal parks. The government needs to recognize already that STANDING forests have crucial value as the whole planet's best defence in times of changing climate. Every ancient tree stores loads of carbon, as long as it's left alive. Letters do help, and as Dan Lewis says, "Small changes add up quickly."


[Note: Catface Mountain, which Chris speaks of below, is a beautiful sight, right across the harbour from Tofino, much loved by the locals. It was so named because the mountain has "ears" and looks like a cat.]

CATFACE COPPER MINE EXPLORATION UPDATE


Imperial Metals still have drilling to do on Catface Mountain. This means more helicopters flying in and out, and more terrifying blasting I can hear all the way to my floathouse in Lemmens Inlet, Meares Island. Trust me, the seals don't like it either. If you check out "mine blasting" on youtube you'll get an eye-opener (and an earful).


Catface is surrounded by salmon streams and rich ocean waters; and within sight and sound of the town of Tofino. Just behind Catface is White Pine Cove, where I once came face to face with a curious young cougar. This spot, the home of such wondrous creatures, would probably become the project's crushing site/processing area, if the mine goes ahead. This mine would be one of the biggest industrial projects on Vancouver Island and would remove the top third of the Mountain, including its ancient temperate rainforest.


Not only that, but Imperial want to explore for gold in Tranquil Inlet, and to do so they first have to reopen six kilometres of old road that has grown in nicely with alders. The Tla-o-qui-aht, whose territory it is, are divided over this, just as non-natives are. As well, Imperial want to run hydro lines a long way through Tla-o-qui-aht territory in order to power their Catface explorations (Catface is Ahousaht territory).


Musical artist Vanessa Lebourdais is currently making a music video against the mine. What a good idea! There are letters to write, music to make, street theatre, art - our only limit is our imagination.


Please send an email or letter to the minister - it will make a difference!
Send your letter/email to:


Steve Thomson, Minister of Natural Resource Operations
NRO.Minister@gov.bc.ca


Please CC to:
Steve Carr, President & Chief Executive Officer,
Integrated Land Management Bureau
steve.carr@gov.bc.ca


Pat Bell, Minister of Forests, Mines and Lands
FOR.Minister@gov.bc.ca


Friends of Clayoquot Sound info@focs.ca


TAKE ACTION AGAINST THE MINE:
Write to:
Bill Bennett, Minister of Energy,


Mines and Petroleum Resources
empr.minister@gov.bc.ca


If you email, CC it to:
Premier Gordon Campbell
premier@gov.bc.ca




[Thank you, Chris. I'm on it!!]

[rally for Clayoquot - image from the Wilderness Committee]

Clayoquot Sound in danger again

I am horrified to learn through our network that, even though Clayoquot Sound is a supposed Biosphere Reserve, once again a logging company is gearing up to slaughter this pristine jewel in the heart of the Sound. Flores Island  is one of the remaining few untouched old growth forested areas left.It is a global rarity.  It is also in the heart of Nuu chah nulth territory and, as such, no one has any business logging it. My heart just sinks that - all these years later - we are still fighting to save the Sound. Protection started in the 1980's, after 1993, there was some stoppage of the destruction. Yet here we are again. 

Logging companies are ruthless in their methods, they lay waste an area, leaving behind an unconscionable mess, and a lot of waste. No benefit accrues to the local area, no jobs are created, no local value-added manufacturing rises out of it. It is all just chopped, and shipped out. Sustainability and the future - or even the present - are not even in their vocabularies. Even loggers know the methods are destructive - their own jobs will be phased out when the last trees are cut - if anyone is still breathing then.

So the environmentalists and First Nations will no doubt be rallying to take a stand. It is as insane to clearcut this small island as it is to strip mine Catface, right across the Tofino harbour - another project on the books.

Sigh. I get feeling pretty hopeless sometimes. But! I copied the info below from Joe Foy at the Wilderness Committee. I have sent my letter. If you feel moved to, you can send a letter as well.

"We have recently learned that there is a plan to log a pristine old growth valley on Flores Island in the heart of Clayoquot Sound. The company has marked out its planned cutting areas and is preparing right now to obtain logging road and cutting permits from the Provincial Government.

It would be such heartbreak to lose this jewel - but if we act NOW we can stop this shortsighted logging plan. Your letter will make a difference. Write the Minister of Natural Resource Operations, Steve Thomson now and let him know how strongly you feel that no road or cut permits be issued for Flores Island or any other intact areas in Clayoquot Sound's globally rare, ancient temperate rainforest.

Click here to send your letter: http://wildernesscommittee.org/write_wild_say_no_logging_flores_island

Your letter will be CCed to the Minister of Forests, Mines and Lands, Pat Bell and the President & CEO of the Integrated Land Management Bureau, Steve Carr."

COUGAR ANNIE

[This poem is about Ada Annie-Rae Arthur, who came to Clayoquot Sound in the early 1900's, settling on rough land near Hesquiaht Harbour, which she worked her entire life to tame and cultivate. She is one of the notable characters of the area, having survived four husbands, personally killed 72 cougar, and raising eleven children.  The flower, above, is on her property. The photograph is likely included in the book Cougar Annie's Garden, by Margaret Horsfield. The garden is now maintained by the Temperate Rainforest Field Study Centre.

The poem was inspired by a quotation by David Whyte:


"I pull the bow out into the wide sea,
paddle dripping towards darkness,
and enter again
the quiet."]


June 2001


In the fading light,
I can just make out
the black shapes of the trees,
tall sentinels
that darkly watch me pass,
roots tangled thickly
down the ancient banks
right to the water's edge,
the shore held fast.


Dip and lift,
the only sound the water's lick,
paddle moving cleanly
through the spreading flow,
the low call of a sleepy owl,
winglift of swooping heron
in mid-flight.
Earth falls away,
above all a starshine glow,
inverted bowl of sky at night
protects me as I go.


Around the point, I drift into Cow Bay
where the big grays are feeding
in a pod.
A whoosh, a whoosh, a whoosh
a vast arched back
a fluke
and then the mystical descent,
their breath sounds like
the hidden voice
of God.


Dip of oar,
scattered droplets
silvered by the moon,
to the head
of Hesquiaht Harbour
home so soon
to farm and garden
mine now, only mine:
husbands and children
spilled like the sands of time,
homestead clawed
from tangled bush,
hardscrabble years
in which
I tamed this once wild patch
of ancient pine.


Now no one here but me,
no one to see:
the vibrant blooms
that spread out everywhere,
unexpected garden
from unyielding soil,
an unexpected life
of endless toil,
I now reflect upon.
I planted flowers
and blooming bushes
all those years,
nourished with laughter,
watered well with tears,
they flourished longer
than leggy children,
grown and so swiftly gone.
Seventy years upon this place,
from young bride
to homesteader/hermit
no man stayed long beside.














At ninety
still a hard glint
in my eyes
a-glistening,
my face bird-like, alert,
intent and listening,
hands cradling the rifle,
head cocked - hush!-
ears tuned for the sound
of cougar in the bush.

72 cougar I killed
over the years,
mice and chickens'
necks I snapped
without a thought.
Four husbands
lived beside me
then they died;
eleven children
brought
into the world,
eleven gone.
What mattered most
this place, the life
that living in it
wrought.



All gone now,
but this place meant
for no other.
The blooms turn
their sweet faces up
to meet me
like a lover.

The fog parts;
my canoe slips
in between
the veil that hides
from this world
the unseen.
These ghostly shores
I shall forever roam.
I'm Cougar Annie and I'm
heading Home.