I always knew my trip would be good, but it wasn’t – it was GREAT!
I’m back home after my epic pilgrimage to Ontario, an 18-day trip that covered 4 billion year-old rock in pre-Cambrian Shield country, an urban landscape accommodating over 6 million people, deciduous forests and included 8 days of gawking at the Most Beautiful Lake in the World. I reconnected with beloved old friends, a brother I hadn’t seen in 9 years and assorted cousins, some I hadn’t seen in 20 years give or take. I endured late planes, “lost” luggage and planes that never showed up at all. I slept in idyllic cabins, on couches, in airport hotels, and in a cottage with a view that pulled memories out of wherever memories live, deep in the soul. As well as these old found memories, new ones were created to sustain me.
When it was finally time to leave Ontario cottage country to drive to the airport to begin a long journey home, it was through a scene of Toronto traffic very similar to this:
I landed back to my now home town here in Qualicum Beach with its single traffic light and its locals complaining about all the traffic from the “summer people”. Ha!
Culture shock anyone?
When I was gone, it felt like months had passed. Now, 5 days after returning, I’m still in some kind of betwixt and between state, neither here nor there. Kelly advises me to live gently with the recovery, not to rush it. Good advice that. The first few days back I spent resting in the garden, regaining my strength, and looking at the garden transformed to its August blowsiness and playing with a camera lens. While I was gone the figs ripened on the tree that I’ve been waiting 4 or 5 years to fruit. Wouldn’t you know, I missed that harvest but still find a few left – some over-ripe now and (over) sweetened into fig newton territory. I watched sky divers floating over the little airport close by and took portraits of hummingbirds gorging on the flower nectar.
However idyllic it may have appeared in those first days back, all is not well in this little piece of paradise.
Once again, for the second summer in a row British Columbia is burning. (See last year’s post When the Moon Turns Orange). When I left 400 fires were burning. I return to nearly 600 and another declared state of emergency. From the plane window, coming home, I could see the blanket of smokey haze covering the entire mainland. Only the tops of the highest snow-covered mountains were visible and even then appeared reddish-pink through the haze.
By Sunday the smoke had descended upon us, over on Vancouver Island, as well. There are fires burning on the island to the north, although not in our immediate area, but heavy smoke from the mainland made its way across, so bad that we’ve closed all the windows, fired up the air purifier and for the most part stay inside, trying to avoid the watery eyes and scratchy throats of this dangerous air quality.
Forest Fire Smoke at Qualicum Beach
Although we’re lucky the fires are not in our immediate vicinity right now, the smoke from them is stretching across the Prairies as far as Winnipeg and down across Washington State (that has its own fire problems) and beyond. We have the dubious distinction of having the worst air quality on the planet at the moment and nothing is going to turn this particular tide but Mother Nature in the form of rain, which is nowhere in the current forecasts. The night before last, 30 more new fires were reported, most from lightning strikes and flights are being cancelled and disrupted in many parts of the province, even affecting the ability of fire fighting planes to take off in some areas.
As it is, for now at least, here in our part of Vancouver Island, we wait it out, believing that soon the winds will shift and clear up this thick smoke that blankets the town. I’m OK with staying in for awhile – I have hundreds of photographs to sort through, countless memories to absorb and probably a few tales to tell.
As I wish for rain for this beleaguered province.