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The Double Eagle

My parents enjoyed the outdoors and taking us kids on adventures no matter how loudly reluctant we were. We strolled, hiked, rode bikes and took out a canoe from time to time. Imagine our parents’ delight when our grandfather sold our family his boat, a 14-foot, 1980 Double Eagle, in pristine condition. It boasted orange decking, brown leather chairs and an off white hull — an adventurer’s dream. A six-pack of chunky, bright orange life jackets later and we were on our way.

All four of us were helpless casualties of their meanderings and self-guided boat instruction. The Double Eagle made them feel limitless with the wind in their hair (at way too many knots an hour) and their newfound capacity for exploration, they had the whole natural world at their fingertips. The Double Eagle was a patient teacher, rather built well. That’s the thing with boats — you learn as you go, and learn they did, thank goodness she was sturdy, built for unyielding adventure.

We hit a sand bar in one lake, sputtering us all right back into reality, our fate resting in the goodness of passersby to free our boat. We also ran out of gas, more than once if I recall correctly. Thankfully, we had oats and boaters, in general, are kind people and they came to our rescue. Our parents eventually learned the exact limitations of that boat and all of our sanity by putting them both to the test. Perhaps there was no other way — in the words of T.S. Eliot, “Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”

We would pull up and jump ashore beside other boats more sleek and more modern coloured, it’s riders sported neoprene life vests in fashionable colours, I’d have given anything in those moments for a trendier neoprene life vest.

The trips started out small, just a few hours searching for everything we had been missing out on while boat-less. We found elusive beaches, hidden waterfalls and spent countless hours beach-combing for “jewels” — strangely shaped wood that had the potential to be made into a table leg or a lamp by my dad, who had very little extra time for projects. We would cheer him on, often adding our own finds to his growing pile. The wood secured the best seats on the boat and it became our responsibility to fit into the boat as best we could. He would lovingly place each piece of carefully curated treasure in a heap beside his shop. He’d eventually move the pile from house to house, very few pieces of wood ever reaching their full potential. Perhaps the pieces of wood were ok with that though, having enjoyed an extra moment of admiration, far after they had provided shade or danced in the breeze.

During one of our expeditions we landed on the shore of a boat-in only campsite. There were three groomed sites for tents hidden in the forest behind, a large beachfront and an outhouse. It was free, off-grid and involved the boat — our parents were thrilled.

Camping sites, back then, were first come, first served and we would drive around with a vehicle packed to the hilt with camping gear, tarping supplies, a large assortment of treats and four very hopeful children. No vacancy signs, confirmed by speaking with site attendants filled us with dismay as we drove with growing urgency, further and further from home and later and later into the day. How much trickier it would be to ensure the boat-in site would be ours, it was imperative we beat the weekend rush.

We never pared down our camping supply list, on account of needing to boat in all of our supplies, in fact we brought more. My dad packed enough two by fours and a sheet of plywood to set up a very elaborate beachfront tarp system, complete with level picnic table and of course an ample supply of firewood. We would need to do two trips. Weighed down, the trip took 45 minutes to an hour depending on the moodiness of the water. When we picked up speed, the rear of the heavily-packed boat often threatened to sink below the surface; it was my brothers job to hop up onto the bow. Those of us who could, clambered forward and the rest of us just leaned and held our breath, hoping we could displace enough weight to not go under. Somehow, our ambitious packing never caused our capsize, though in one terrifying moment, my brother and his friend were both washed into the water, but just once.

We had enough supplies to fill the beach, due to my dads over-sized tarps and furniture made on site. To onlookers, I’m sure it seemed as though we had always been there and were leaving no time soon and so we never had to share the camping area. I’m quite sure the small number of unruly, bedraggled children had nothing to do with it.

Upon arriving at our explorers paradise, the skies broke open and the rain poured down. We set to work unloading and setting up our tents. The outstretched arms of the cedar trees offered very little protection from the rain. We longingly joked about abandoning the whole trip for a warm hotel, but we grew up on a budget, dad had already left for the second load of supplies and it was already growing dark. We were just barely able to see beyond the branches of the trees, the rain making the lake’s surface come to life. We fumbled through set up and took shelter inside the kids’ tent. We climbed into our sleeping bags, clicked off the flashlight and settled in to wait for morning.

After what felt like forever, we heard the trusty hum of the Double Eagle’s motor. Our dad —an experienced camper—startled us all as he walked around the tent pushing on the walls, “stay away from the walls to stay dry,” he warned. We huddled together, with our backpacks, in the middle of the tent. Sleep overtook us all as we imagined what tomorrow’s light might bring, listening to the falling rain on the tent.

We excitedly unzipped the tent and stumbled out to find a much more favourable day for camping. We played amongst the trees, on the sandy beach and cooled off in the frigid water. We enjoyed tubing, holding on for dear life until we plunged into the cold water that smacked like concrete and took our breath away. “Faster!” We screamed.

As the day warmed, an old man kayaked over to our campsite, two smaller kayaks in tow. A tiny bathing suit showed off his sun weathered skin, his eyes appeared so large behind the thick glasses he wore on a strap fastened behind his head. He may or may not have been a little “off,” said my mom who prided herself on her stellar intuition and never took her eyes off of us as he hoisted us in and out of his kayaks, summer after summer. I’m not sure if it was politeness or curiosity that led her to allow us to follow him to his campsite a short hike down the beach. She followed closely. He was set up to stay the majority of the summer in an incredible fortress made of the wood he had collected from the beaches. These sticks were surely enjoying their second life; I’m sure he was a good guy.

I admire my parents resolve for adventure. Taking four whining, heavily-resistant children into the elements is not for the faint of heart. I don’t recall any of us kids ever loving the boating part of these escapades, though when our feet hit the ground again, as we reached our destination, we were happy explorers.

My brother-in-law recently rewired the motor at my mom’s request, and we all cinched up our orange life jackets extra tight (pretty sure those were original), sat our kids on the brown cracked leather seats and took a ride on the Double Eagle, for old time’s sake, fondly thinking back on all the trips we survived.

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the trees

nourished

by the decaying

collective

the spirits

of our ancestors

whisper

through

their branches

adorned

with loving trinkets

they bow

their heads

in omniscient reverence

for the dead

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The Very Hungry Caterpillars

I thought I would be a good mom, you know, one that embraced her children’s interests and science and nature and said “yes” once and awhile, especially since this is my oldest’s last summer before kindergarten. But. Oh. My. God.

Three weeks ago, we spied butterfly eggs, helplessly lying on the leaf of my daughters sunflower plant. The plant my daughters raised from tiny sunflower seeds, given to them in a party bag, the seeds they lovingly shoved into a weird puck of hard packed dirt, the plants that had already survived the dutiful over-watering of a five and three year-old, their “gentle” hands, several drop and spills and an aphid infestation. They likely wouldn’t survive a hundred hungry caterpillars. Seriously, why this plant?

Unbeknownst to me, they built a caterpillar Tupperware terrarium and scraped the eggs from the leaf into the container. I warned them they were unlikely to live.

They placed the container on the counter and studied its contents each day. Nothing happened. Just as they were about to be written off completely, and the dirt deposited back into the earth, they popped out of the eggs and a very tiny caterpillar climbed up the side of the container.

I thought I knew what I was doing, I had read Eric Carle’s, The Very Hungry Caterpillar after all — a deceptively short book.

I cut off a couple of sunflower leaves and placed them gently into the container. With a piece of grass I carefully dropped each very tiny caterpillar onto the leaves, sprinkled on a few tiny water droplets. The three of us, mesmerized, peered into the container. I warned them again, it was still very unlikely they would survive.

When they began to nibble tiny holes in the leaf, I thought to myself maybe, just maybe they would be OK.

The next day, my five-year-old daughter asked, “Do wood bugs eat baby caterpillars?”

“Why?” I asked, as my daughter led me to the container and pointed at a very large, very grey, wood bug.

“Take it out,” I said.

“Why?” she asked. I raised my eyebrows and she carefully picked up the wood bug and carried it outside.

Google confirmed wood bugs do, in fact, eat baby caterpillars — which might explain why there were less caterpillars than there were yesterday. How did parents even parent pre-Google?

“There’s two,” she informed me, “There’s another wood bug somewhere under the dirt.” So again I warned them, the caterpillars were unlikely to survive.

The following day, I took a head count: One missing wood bug resurfaced, three wilted leaves, nine tiny caterpillars, a plethora of caterpillar poo and one clump of quinoa — they like to watch them while they eat.

A few days later, none of the caterpillars were moving and I was certain they were all dead. They weren’t. The quinoa had sprouted some mold and a tiny little weed curled out from the dirt. They needed a container change — as if I didn’t have anything better to do (but I don’t, I really don’t, because these little guys make her heart happy, so my heart is happy) — I instructed my children on how this should happen, because unlike Eric Carle’s hungry caterpillar, these little guys are highly particular about the food they choose to eat and defaecate on. I encouraged the caterpillars from very wilted leaves and the girls replaced them with fresh ones.

Google assured me my their beloved caterpillars look very much like cabbage worms. Which made me feel slightly less guilty about this unintentional science exploration as all of the websites listed ways to eradicate the pest, rather than care for it.

Two weeks later, there were ten. I don’t know where the tenth came from, it’s much smaller than the others. They poo a lot, by a lot I mean A LOT. They eat a lot. Also they’ve turned orange and black, are very furry, and are most definitely adorable little Woolly Bear caterpillars. Google says they will molt — which makes their heads falling off feel less alarming now — six times before forming a chrysalis. Six. Eric Carle told this story in twelve pages.

The five-year-old says she does not want to set them free at the park, not even just a couple. Instead she gathers a variety of leaves, flowers and sticks from every place we visit — a self-proclaimed caterpillar mom.

With any luck, in a couple months she will be releasing her moths into the wilderness. Around the same time I will be dropping my oldest off at kindergarten — marking the end of a monumental summer of transformation. I imagine it will feel like a combination of “I’m so sad this time is over” and “I’ve waited so long for this” for both of us mothers.

Stay tuned.

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Laura’s Tree

She stands
Roots descending deep into the earth, fixed here.

Nature’s breath
A thousand butterflies fluttering to the earth, take flight.

Inconsequential
Made meaningful only by proximity, fleeting fragility.

Good company
Amongst the trees and the old lady who always makes time to chat, ever present.

Stirred reverie
Quivering boughs reminisce the seasons passed, hold dear.

Steadfast homage
Breathe in the billowing petals, transcendent beauty.

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Another Day at the Pond

Photo by Mélanie Martin

We trudged up the hill, the trees, usually generous, offered no relief from the sun, high in the sky. Rubber boots against black pavement amplified the heat and chafed our bare legs. When did this hill become so steep? It was important that we hurried.

They sighed in loud opposition, as they often do. They didn’t want to be here in the heat of the day, still I urged them forward. It was important that we make it.

Days earlier we had studied the shrinking pool of water. It was much smaller than a few days before that. As the water surrendered to the warming days the pool became more obviously alive. We stirred up the water with a stick and watched as creatures emerged from the murky bottom. I’d always been fascinated by pond life. 

My grandparents owned a beautiful five acre property we loved to explore. My grandfather carefully tended each area, tamed blackberry bushes and proudly toured us around, feeding us the things he found while noting seasonal changes and improvements he’d made. There was a barn that housed a horse and chickens, large gardens and a dilapidated caboose, all the things childhood adventures were made of. But the most fascinating part was the pond. Each Spring, we bore witness to life itself, while observing eggs turn to tadpoles and tadpoles to frogs.

My grandfather cared greatly for his pond and the life within it. He took it upon himself to give it a concrete bottom on one half, I’m sure to ensure that the pond would not dry out before the tadpoles had completed their transformation. It was important to him for these tadpoles to join the loud chorus of adult frogs in the neighbourhood. 

We would venture into the pond, stirring the ground with our boots plunging ice cream pails into the water, excitedly studying each scoop, until our boots filled up with water. We returned to the pond week after week, spring after spring making note of changes.

It’s no wonder I love ponds, this oddity is likely a part of my DNA. Naturally, I was thrilled when we bought an acreage with a pond on it, my kids would love this, they’d have to. If it wasn’t already a part of them, it would be soon.

Routinely we walk our property, appreciatively breathing the fresh air. The walks always move slowly, as we stop for each puddle and collect all of the treasures that catch the eye of my daughters, until their pockets and hands grow heavy, until their legs grow weary.

We religiously study the water levels as cool spring days become warmer. Each year we watch as puddles become captivating ecosystems, wriggling with life. As the days grow longer so does my concern for the well-being of the puddle dwelling creatures that have entertained me so. I cannot bear to let them succumb to the heat of the day. And so we hurry.

They are moments from death. Near victims of the perilous sun, they lay still. Helplessly packed together, their delicate skin is only kept damp by the body pressed against theirs. Survival had sent them to various deeper pockets of the puddle. The ground around them cracked, baking in the heat of the day. With both my hands I carefully scoop them into the bucket. There’s no way to know for sure but they it looked as though they were celebrating this necessary change. 

My four year old daughter drags a net through another puddle, carefully tapping the net on the bucket to release its squirming contents. Tadpoles, salamander efts and dragonfly nymphs cascade out. All natural predators of each other, I pondered if I ought to leave one type behind. Having already interfered with Darwinian survival principles, I decided against throwing off the balance of predator and prey. That and I couldn’t possibly. It was too rewarding rescuing them, imagining all of the creatures happily re-homed in a much larger pond, one able to withstand the summer sun. 

Our two-year-old quickly lost interest and found herself tangled in  a long black berry vine. Even after rescuing, she cried to return to the comfort of our house, dramatically indicating her freshly scratched legs. It was time. We had rescued hundreds. The next large puddle over had several days still before they too would be in dire condition. I made a mental plan to return. 

We headed back down the hill. The bucket sloshed against my leg as I tightly gripped it and our crying two-year-old daughter’s hand. Both loudly complaining now, they were prepared to collapse right there on the road, just minutes from our home. Desperate promises of popsicles in the shade, coaxed them along. 

I carefully let more water into the bucket and left it in the pond, acclimating, under the watch of the weeping willow. After some time my daughters and I went back to the pond to bid farewell to our friends. I slowly tipped the bucket into the pond, some eagerly swam away, some hesitant, clung to the bucket, waiting for more help. They were free. I watched as they began to migrate further into the pond. They had made it. Relieved, I continued to watch as a large salamander crept out of the depths and snatched up an unsuspecting tadpole in its mouth, before disappearing again. And the circle of life marches on, just another day in the pond.

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Mother Earth

Photo by Adam Edgerton

Our generous host
She offered everything
But we wanted more 
We reached deep down into her being and pulled from within her
Drained her aquifers 
Extracted oil
Mined metals and stone
We sold her soul for wealth
Sold our own by taking far more than we need
Without thanks
Who could blame her when she demonstrates her majestic rage
Still we refuse to listen
She’s fighting us 
The same way our bodies fight an infection 
With fever and chills

-What have we done?

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when i die

when i die
spread my ashes
everywhere i used to love
sprinkle me in the river
so i can forever feel the cool water rushing over me
the smooth rocks beneath me
sprinkle me on the peak of the mountain
so i can forever gaze at the sights i’ve always admired
riding the breeze into the valley below
distribute me throughout the forest
so i can rest on it’s mossy floor
forever sheltered by the outstretched arms of the cedars
scatter me on the shores of the ocean
so i can forever smell the salty wind
my body can travel to the places i’ve never been before
but more importantly
i want to share these places with you
again
before i am completely gone
i understand it now
why the salmon pours all of her life energy to swim upstream
to show her birth place to her offspring
before her body is consumed by the earth

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current climate

the wind
always present
whispering through the trees
a cool breeze on a warm day
a mighty force
willfully contained
unnoticed
taken for granted
as she gently rearranges the clouds
slowly rolls in the weather

but when she calls upon the seas
and the mighty waves come crashing down
when she calls upon the earth
and she uproots the trees
when she calls upon the skies
and lets forth a furious storm
only then does the earth begin to take notice

-like we’ve never seen